that withered body,
twisted by time
sits still, subjected to
whim or care of
those around you.

you are spoon fed
platitudes,
condescension
served alongside your dinner.

eyes, with a diminished view,
your voice locked inside,
unable to sing those songs
of yesteryear.

hope dies a slower death
than these bodies, than this mind.

recognition reaches across
that enshrouded mist.

that tender moment,
your hand seeking mine

you are still an effective beauty.

yes, i see you


--bruised orange