With dementia the mind dies, only the shell remains.

Last Bit Of Sand

Mouthfuls of air

are the only sounds

that vibrate in my mouth.

It is a constant perishing.

God, I want to feel the crush

of phrases on my tongue

the sudden weight

of every aching word.

My fear is emerging indifference.

Once a mindful current surged

now a dry riverbed remains.

My tongue licks the last bit of sand

from my brain then...nothing.

Hold Of The Wind

The pilot light of speech flickers low

and time stands to the side,

my brain crackles static

shrinks to a single haywire cell

and I'm greedy for thoughts to form.

My belly heaves

as words lodge in my throat

too faint for human ears.

I remember the sound of my voice

and my thoughts are now stored

in the hold of the wind,

molecules hiding their music.

I carry my secrets close

but not by choice,

my memory has crumpled like tissue.