His eyes are glazed with cataracts; these days he seldom speaks.
He’d choke if not for thickeners his nurse puts in his drinks.
The Amyloid has run amok, like weeds that spread and climb,
His intellect is overthrown; He’s trapped within his mind.
Alzheimer’s started subtly. He’d forget a place or name.
He’d wander through his rooms at home, uncertain why he came.
His wits became befuddled; he gave up his keys to drive.
He’d wander off without his coat; it’s a wonder he’s alive.
His world grew gradually smaller, snared in a web of fear.
Frustrated by his loss of self, he’d shed many wordless tears.
Now he is in hospice and he hasn’t got much time.
His body, too, is failing him. He’s already lost his mind.
Old memories are stirred in him, treasures he can’t speak.
He imagines himself young and strong; not old senile and weak.
His lips curl in a toothless smile and I can only pray
That in his tangled mind he’s found the door to yesterday.
Written based upon my mother's long sad decline, fictionalized here, but the suffering was real.