Language is always on the edge with dementia,

turmoil of word and mind a constant. 

 A Deep Vault

My memory is unreadable

as the night sky,

leaves on cat's feet

and the present is swallowed in fog.

In vain my brain waits

to be fed with words,

malfunctions with a hiss

from my throat

and the rest is hidden

in a deep vault.

I wait for the slightest sound

but there is nothing,

wisps rise from an open mouth

but my memory has shrunken

to a single cell.

I sit in conscious ache,

shattering silence my reply,

survive less than a man

and fear the drowning.

A shroud rolls

once again to swallow

verbal sound and a cold wind

sweeps silence into blackness.

Long Shadows

Dark drama rules my life

and I will-away the hollow ache.

Weak and feeble words

turn to whispers and I exhale

with a sigh.  My mind is restless

in search of conversation

and my face has dropped its smile.

Sentences dissolve then disappear

as I try to recall the words,

then nothing.

With furrowed expression

I feel the silence extend upward

to my eyes in a soft fog

and

daily there is less of me.

I live with my own unspoken

thoughts and cast a long shadow

as winter's solstice nears.