Buried Memories

Poem By poppy miller

He's standing at the window; bird watching.
His shoulders drooping, his back bent;
The dark hair now grey and thinning,
His youthful energy spent.

His once fitting trousers now bag,
Comforting his legs now bent and thin.
Bony arms, one bearing a skintag;
Liver spots mark his skin.

He turns, his eyes on mine stare
Vacant; those eyes once blue,
Time doesn't seem to hold a care.
No. Such preservations are few.

My heart grieves as I search his face,
Looking for the spouse that I once knew.
Is he resting in some other space,
Dreaming dreams anew?

I mourn my lover; our lost passion,
The laughter, mentor, faithful friend.
Such a giver, not knowing ration
Not knowing what lies around the bend.

I call to him; he grasps my hand
And smiles the smile that lights a room;
But the fear of lost memory takes its stand,
Pray, who created this hideous doom?

I hold him (scorning this disease)
And sooth him with a song of love;
All is gone now, (no memories)
Though what still remains - is love.

January 8th 2016

Comments about Buried Memories

Those eyes once blue! ! Thanks for sharing.
Poppy How well you express the desperation one feels when a loved one slowly slips away. It is very moving. Tom Billsborough
Thankyou Waseem, it was very kind of you to leave a response and it's very much appreciated.
the sadness seeps through your words into our hearts bringing tears to our eyes. no exaggeration, believe me. thank you for sharing.
Thankyou Ann. Dementia is such a cruel thing. I wrote this on seeing a man stood by the window in the care home where I visit my mother.


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Other poems of MILLER

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You have seasoned my heart with summer spice
Brought on the air from paradise
Clothed me in fall's sacred shades
To wrap around like scented glades

The Funeral

He showed me to a room
With dimmed lights and
Soft, soulful music.
It was appropriate.

Unwinding Love

Along the dark shore where the waves roll wild
And the wind roams where it will,
The soul fills with flaming passion
While the stars stand shocked and still.

Their Story.

THEIR STORY

They spring up like mushrooms
From the hole that shares no warmth.

Accepting

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The white swan came for you
Carried you high above the world