"fillst" poems
Be still my heart, why dost thou turn?
Thy beat is fast, thy passion burns.
Thy flame dost strike within my breast,
And now I cannot find my rest.
Thou fillst my head with hopes and dreams,
Yet naught can come of lovesick schemes.
Alone I rest my head at night,
And still thou beat, to mock my plight.
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC