My mothers in a holding pen before she dies.
Walls decorated with fake flowers
and pictures she doesn't see.
People in corridors in wheelchairs
where smells stagnant from old age permeant nostrils.
Where food severed under heading of meals barely healthy
is thrown on plates by aids trying to end their shift.

And me I see her through bars of her own fading mind.

My mother is living in an institution before she passes.
Waiting out the hours where memories are as distant
as a few and far between hug.
A place called a memory ward that fills her with medication
causing a bed time of 6PM.

And me I see her through invisible bars of an empty stare
and mouth that strains for words.

My mothers living in a old age holding pen before she
cashes in her chips and turns up toes.
A place that helps fill her day with old TV shows
watching with an unfocused eye and restless body.
An expensive place thats situated on tree lined street
she goes out not often.

And me I see her through door with bolted lock
that rings out reminding us both she's imprisoned.

My mothers living in a cell for the forgotten,
waiting for her life sentence of journey to end.
Where one can see inside her distant stare, she misses dad and her hearts wishes to be with him.
A place she's waiting for warden-like angels to free her
and guide her to roam in peace and freedom.
The home in stars where she can feel my love
and see her life legacy was well lived.

And me I just smile grateful for time left to say Mom “I love you,” forgetting all difference. Words I never know will be said for the last time to her longing ears.