It's a disease
Manipulative and painful
Traveling through the veins of innocent people
Wandering through the genes of many
Its cancer.
I look at the shelf where I keep your pictures, figurines, and such
I think of the red wine made with your soft Sicilian touch
Sitting under the grape vines, reminiscing great times,I read the poem that you left for us to read and it tells me not to weep