Take the pieces of your day, wrap it in cotton, saturate it with rubbing alcohol and set it on fire.
I offer you the mind of one who suffers with dementia. Follow me as I follow my mother’s journey into this insipid disease so when your turn comes, you will know.
Judge her not—
for loss of familiar
words in her runaway time—
mislaid time is no time for tucking words
away into her lost mind,
but time is all she has—this rare day
she finds lost beauty praised
while lost sorrows increase
time and time again
I glance into tomorrow’s certainty
of lost words
and hug her
against my soul.
Written for Poetic Asides Wednesday prompton Memory
and for Poets UnitedVice Versa
Familiar/Rare & Diminish /Increase & Doubt / Certainty