He forgets my name,

Often his tea, gently brewed,

Lies cold by the cookies.

Forgets to tie his laces,

For when he walks his twenty paces.

Parched memories,

Those eyes of his reflect,

Blurred moments glint the iris.

As he stares me down,

Upon his brow, a frown.

Flecks a blank mind,

Connecting the flat line,

Looking beyond, at a life bygone.

Winged creatures, he forgets

Are birds that chant,

The bell that peals,

Is inside his head.

No rhythm, no rhyme,

For when it’s his time,

He remembers it all,

Staining the blank,

Glazing the peace,

Driven to forgetting afresh.

In such is his release.