Dimentia

January 4, 2014

Dementia:

A poetry of the literal sense in a mind that is not

Tell me,

Have I ever once crossed the boundaries of your mind?

Squeezed in amongst your innermost demons of every which kind,

Shared a tale with your memories as I reminisced thine

And here I stand with your thoughts, making them mine.

Tell me,

How good am I at taking control?

Dancing with that once limber body, now making it old

Spinning you, plieing, a dizzy curtsy of soul

Your eyes, love, they tell me just where you shall go

Along with every coral detail you never meant me to know.

Tell me,

Your everything- body, soul, mind- a treasure be it told!

And cloaked now in dirt my bargaining goes

For in exchange for you, my full pocket of gold,

This deed be it done, your life has been sold.

To rot, to stink, to shadow the cold.

Tell me,

Have I treated you kind?

Yes, Death, be it name, have come just in time

To enjoy the show you have offered as I sit next to thine

In this theatre, this player, the last part, a whine

Lips taut, fear to part, be it their final line

Bravo, Brava! My actor has shined!

Perfect time, hollow thud, You react with the wine

As I stand, feet before, come to take what is mine.

Tell me,

Is tonight the night that you die?

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