Monday, 15 December 2014

Mrs P.

Now even
the most mundane
of tasks
are a muddle for her:

she chews her oral pills,
she's incapable
of using the kettle,
and now the commode
is seeing use.

Soon, she will be
unable to live on her own.
A life will come to an end,
a new existence shall start
as her daughters

put her in a home.
They will shed a tear
and remember their mother
as she 'used' to be -
as she will never be again.

And Mrs P, she
will maybe cry,
and maybe throw some
mean words, keen punches;
or she will try.

But soon it will be better,
as she looks out
on a perfect morning,
a birdsong afternoon,
the visage something entirely

alien to her, as she
lives her past in the present,
projects the present
into the future,
and her days all haze 

into one.

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