Marble's Sombre Drop
My memories scatter, like dust of the air,
which once were more numerous than fish in the sea.
Now withered, they re-tell tales of lost youth.
At times my memories congeel and fragment,
so much so,
that I label myself untrustworthy.
I feel an emptyness that my mouth can't quantify, nor words express.
Like my soul is fleeting, ready to leave the sack of bones it hopelessly occupies.
People say that growing old is a curse,
but it's not the outward complexion that grieves me so.
Rather the rattle as my marbles drop and my memories lie in tatters.
I'm scared when the people in white coats barge in.
who say they're 'here to help' , but proceed to strip me of my my dignity,
and use pills to make me helplessly compliant.
Maybe cruel karma has punished me fast.
For little did I empathise, until I truly knew,
what it's like to be a burden, societie's disregard.
And ever shall I wish that humble soul,
will see me not as useless, but marvel at my tales.
And one day, I pray, that someone will,
outstretch to me the hand of compassion.
08.19.2020
Copyright © Charlotte Watkins | Year Posted 2020
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