His mind is a dark nostalgic nest
of thoughts and images that will not rest
a shattered narrative he can’t express
Frantically he searches his muddled mind
but his memory reaper’s working overtime
plucking thoughts from his memory vine
But what of the scrapbook in his head
he sees it there but it can’t be read
the memory’s worn like a tattered thread
His mind grows quiet with each passing day
as one by one, his memories fade
softly he whispers, “I am not afraid.”
Love this poem and its rhythm
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Aw, thank you so much.
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I like it. Great poem, but I see the tragic undertones of life and aging. Another work of poetic mastery.
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Thanks, Bill.
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Very nice poem and good flow!
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Thank you😊
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Your welcome
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A beautiful poem tribute to the aging mind.
Dwight
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Thanks, Dwight😊
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