of thinking.
of over thinking.
slugging past the swamp
of past love.
where
are the blue skies.
the dreamy
nights.
the music, the laughter
of youth.
where are the days
of yore.
the days
of friends in pubs,
with pints.
with irish lasses,
with lips
like roses,
to be kissed in
the alleyways
on cobblestones
as we stagger home.
where is the glory
of our
younger selves.
have our yesterdays
all gone, disappeared
in the fog of time,
will there
ever be more.
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