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'Excuse the mess', her voice trickled through, as I walked into the room. Piles and piles of dirty plates and cups -all stacked up, like a junkyard shop.
A sense of finality fills the air, Nothing to see yet all I can do is stare.
Standing at the unmistakable precipice, Surveying all that he had penned; The inevitable was upon him; A brilliant mind on which, he could no longer depend.
I sit here, in my high backed chair And watch the world go by Although my world is one small room A room in which I'll die Sometimes some people visit me They say they're family But I never married...
#emotion I get confused these days At least that's what the wife says I put it down to getting old But it's not just that, or so I'm told Like when I caught a bus Oh my goodness, what a fuss.
My mind is not my own, I have washed mummy. I sit here on my own, I like Charlie, to tickle his tummy. A sitting room of the damned, You do that again and I'll smack your hand.
It seemed I had lost you for a while watched you hold a strangers hand that was mine searching for a spark in dementia's darkness Now somehow, i have you back free from pain happy and...
We went round to his house today, It was empty yet again. He'd gone out, yet again, Forgetting we were coming. He forgets everything these days. His house is a shrine to the past.