Times like these.
Swollen with abandon of our wills our bodies our minds
And waiting to burst but settling for softening.
These are the times of our stories
The same, like someone forgot to turn the page
Turn on the radio it has better news
(impending bombs may move us.)
Every day is a new old.
Every day is strewn gold
On the timelanes of our lives.
These are the times of our lives.