by Marcus Lane
Age-fog hangs in heavy drapes
Around my head, a thick'ning gauze.
Memory of your love escapes
The swallowing mist that seals my doors.
My straggling wispy hair you stroke,
Whisp'ring words of long-lived love.
Though shafts of sunlight prod and poke
They cannot pierce the gloom above.
Sitting at the window I
Avert my gaze, your touch resist.
Memory dulled, with glassy eye
And drooling mouth, I face the mist.
Posted on 02/27/2010
Copyright © 2021 Marcus Lane
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 03/13/10 at 04:00 PM|
This nails the aging process. My generation is now watching our parents become this poem and it is difficult. The fog is a perfect image for this process - slowly, silently stealing in; something about the drooling mouth just completes the loss of control. Well done.
|Posted by Leonard M Hawkes on 04/03/10 at 10:41 PM|
Again, captures the scene / feeling / situation well. And I admit, I worry about becoming this.
|Posted by Linda Fuller on 04/16/11 at 08:35 PM|
This packs a sad wallop.