Updated: Dec 20, 2020
In the days
of wine and roses,
in days of old
when times were easier.
There was no descent into paranoia,
no blackness, just the light.
of times so sweet to the heart,
the soul cries,
because there are no more.
Now our minds bleed
thinking about what used to be,
white picket fences,
surrounding a house of Americana.
With fierce rage of rain,
so wicked are they.
We ache for the days of free love,
when gold streets shined like a beacon,
when we yearned for a single touch. . .
Timothy Michael DiVito c2o19