Poetry

Chills
The hair stands straight on my arm
As if to salute you
My general
My maiden
 
Angst
To see you is to see medusa
Hard to look away
Even harder to gaze
For why
Do you keep me waitin
 
Fever
The passion burns deep in my soul
Deeper in my heart
But deepest in my mind
 
Sorrow
Few words spoken
To no hearts’ token
Opportunity lies open
For yet another time