Beneath a fading purple sky,
Papa sits here gazing high,
warmly smiling as I say
my name again to him today
though not an hour has since passed by.

Sunlight sinking, vision fails;
and selfless warmth now leaves the vales.
His voice which once was strong and pure,
staccatos now and speaks words fewer;
A phantom with a loved one's face.

And yet the words he finds to speak,
though murmuring voice is rasp and weak,
hold truths from many decades past,
told vividly with spirit vast;
nostalgia from a dear antique.

He dreams within a castle air,
with memory as the mason there.
He sometimes looks out past the vape
at shadows gathering there to gape,
but can't assail his foggy lair.

Inside, his vigor unbereft,
his chronicles are lined and kept
on shelves of moments  come and gone;
and cherished loves long since passed on
within this dream have never left.

And there my papa wanders free -
his paradise of memory.
And though I dearly miss him so
when him to this silent fortress go,
the phantom there is I, not he.