Blood and bone be my witness,
The heart is struck with great an illness.
Waste, is her name.
The time of day would go away just as it came.

Seeing the hours tick
And hearing my watch’s click,
Would give me more reason
To accuse my mind of high treason.

Its only duty is to obey me,
And yet my ideas drift, as though they were on sea.
Strange is this mind.
Too often cruel, rather than kind.