you creak with every age wracked movement,
drawing breaths you pray are not your last—
if you pray at all within the fog of your lost world.
your eyes shine a light, but what light isn't clear:
whether it's the madness peering out,
or the spark of life burning on, so brightly in your dark.
so much lively energy, so little sense in its direction;
perhaps the words for my own stone, whenever it's laid.
time, and who there is to bury me, will tell.
meanwhile, in you I see the future, and the harrowing pain
of a past mislead by pa**ions damped, true love misspent,
and heaven's wandering fire—imagination—cast aside.
such a waste, such tragedy, rewritten every morning,
when you rise to taste the warmth of each new day
unable to remember even a little of the one that pa**ed before