The Path Back Home
Final stage of dementia, imminent oblivion,
Mind slowly dying, waning to black obsidian,
A trail of breadcrumbs, left behind in my wake,
Beacons across time, for the trek I now face,
Paving the way, for my journey, back home.
These markers I’ve set, some sad, but mostly fun,
An eclipse I once witnessed, of the moon on our sun,
Impossible coincidence, yet happened just the same,
Pebble’s silhouette, overtopping an alpine range,
Paving the way, for my journey, back home.
Something enters my head, and this really scares,
An occupying army, executing locals, in town’s square,
Hanging them on makeshift gallows, I’m so terribly afraid,
Did it even happen, disturbing hallucinations, everyday,
Paving the way, for my journey back home.
So unbearably tragic, when better off to just die,
Last perception, lucid memory, myself a baby boy,
Birds flying around my pram, heart jumps with delight,
Loving parents laughing back, at this gurgling sight,
Paving the way, for my journey back home.
Reflections-echoes-shadows, diminishing light,
I’m moribund now, siphoned away from this life,
A strange unfamiliar signal, begins to resound,
Seismic shock, upon chest, follows heavy pounds,
Paving the way, for my journey, back home.
Grim Reaper he cometh, I grasp his cape tight,
Sensations no more, only darkest ever night,
Paved the way to death, by writing this poem,
Brain has turned to ash, embers guide me home.
Dedicated to my mother
Christine Kavanagh.
1928-2016 RIP
By
David Kavanagh
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