To regret and to the relentless ticking of the clock.
That you have wrought and worked from the hearts of men.
And every sweet thought and word of passion have forgotten.
What you possess and protect is a feeling of hatred.
Where before your beauty and soul were held sacred.
Now you are left, Ravaged by your own tool.
Whoever believes in stopping you is believed a fool.
Why can’t you come back and be mine?
Why won’t you turn back, sweet time?
To a period where my mind held no worry.
How I wish you would accept that I am sorry.