Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mar 2017
I miss my mother most
when I'm in her frenetic company.
Such an angry fragile woman
in the shadow of the mum
she used to be.
Lost and alone, wanting a way home,
one woman against the world
with no old friends
only fresh new foes.

She can identify every shifting lie
sitting scared with no escape
from a hundred shifty eyes.
Stalkers criticise every mistake
watching her practice looping moves
cornering her as if to prove
that we're all conspiring
each trying to rob her
when the screaming truth here
is that her fleeting thoughts
have already gone where
we can never walk
not even in our tears.
Dementia is a slow killer.
Steve Page
Written by
Steve Page  62/M/London, U.K.
(62/M/London, U.K.)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems