The Heart Of Death
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Buffed out as though with emery;
Alzheimer's stole your memory.
And you sit in your chair and gaze;
lost in a perpetual haze.
You aren't in pain, but don't look well:
for you're, little more than a shell.
And when I touch you, you pull back;
as if fending off an attack.
How horrible to be confined;
essentially trapped in one's mind.
And although I wish it weren't so:
love only adds to my sorrow.
Dementia's something we'll work through,
for I'll never abandon you.
And when you breathe your final breath:
my tears will pierce the heart of Death.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2020
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