Way Back When

• Madeline Hay Hay, Grade 9
• Poetry
• 2017

Down my grandfather’s face, slide better times.
He remembers a place, innocent and blessed.
Here stands a land intoxicated in fine wine,
While olden times have fallen to rest.

Now compassion and kindness we no longer possess.
Robots have invaded as an infectious disease.
For we call this illness progress,
While ashen hand blow away in the breeze.

He now exist without that musical silence.
Demons blood drips from our pen.
He live in a world drunk with evil and violence,
Without the simplicity of way back when.