At
the nursing home, I see the ravages of not
remembering,
Alzheimer, I am told. A shame
not remembering your own children,
not know-
ing who you have become.
And the others,
idle, lining the hallways in wheel
chairs, sent here in their
last months and years for
aseptic caring even their own kin were
no longer
willing or able to provide.
The listless
bedridden are stowed away in rooms,
eyes glazed-over fixed on
the empty, colorless walls.
As for me, a visitor in my early
fifties, I pray this end
of days scenerio is not to be part of
my destiny.
I close my eyes imagining, is this
life-lost existence
a cursed foreshadowing? A shroud of darkness
and
the deafening sound of silence settle over me. I
take
a deep breath and smell the disinfectant of motality.
And
I can see the depths of eternity.
Chris Hanch 8-16-19
remembering, Alzheimer, I am told. A shame
not remembering your own children, not know-
ing who you have become.
And the others, idle, lining the hallways in wheel
chairs, sent here in their last months and years for
aseptic caring even their own kin were no longer
willing or able to provide.
The listless bedridden are stowed away in rooms,
eyes glazed-over fixed on the empty, colorless walls.
As for me, a visitor in my early fifties, I pray this end
of days scenerio is not to be part of my destiny.
I close my eyes imagining, is this life-lost existence
a cursed foreshadowing? A shroud of darkness and
the deafening sound of silence settle over me. I take
a deep breath and smell the disinfectant of motality.
And I can see the depths of eternity.
Chris Hanch 8-16-19
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