The living hell of Alzheimer’s for all concerned.


      Spent - Stormwolf

It’s spent we are.

Though kicking wildly
against the traces of defeat.

Like late blooming flowers
overtaken by first bitter frost.
Our hopes lie cold within us.

Futility stifles rogue words of comfort
or inspiration.
We sit in silence, bonded by love.
Staring bleakly
screaming inwardly
for the return of lucidity.

One last flame
to light the way
into nothingness…

Though not alone.


© stormwolf 2023
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I can’t believe I missed this, Alison. I am so sorry, because it deserved great merit – DOES deserve great merit… hence it was given the nib. Belated congratulations for that.


I only just found this (I must broaden my viewing!); and yes, Griffonner has the right of it; congratulations Alison on an excellent piece.



No worries Alison; I’ve been out of circulation myself this past week – a temporary situation I hope. Apart from appreciating your excellent poem, it is the first one of yours I’ve read – or is that spoken aloud?


Yes, it is a long goodbye. Sometimes comical but most of the time heart wrenching. I am starting this process with my mother just this year. She was moved in with my sister and kept calling me to come take her home, wanted to escape back to the house we grew up in. Like how how your poem is shaped, goes with the subject matter.

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