Fading is…


A table,
a darkened TV monitor,
a trusted friend of late
staring back at the old man's face
propped up by withered hands
supporting his fading semblance.

Fading is…

Time's map now sallow of spent harvest.
awaits tomorrow with swollen tributaries,
purple veins spidering across a leathery landscape
once of vibrant color,
now but survival in raised relief,
remnants of a once mountainous climb,
now simply time's sand awaiting
the next dune to take shape.

Fading is…

The mirror of one's lifetime of grist,
the roots of age separating,
one's capillaries emerged,
a corroded shield once handsome,
now a decaying canvas
stretched tight over facial bones protruding,
sunken erosion of yesterdays' tenacity.

Fading is…

Lucidity waning
as the lost look of wishing
struggles with how it feels
to merely gaze at a glass reflection
visiting one’s tenuous imagination.
“After all,” he says,
“It was just the other day
when I heard the Charleston
drifting around in the dark.
Remember that Helen?
Remember?”

“Dad,” his son says,
“Mom's not here anymore.”

He lowers his head onto the desk
as his smile holds.
“Helen darling,
you danced the Charleston for me.
Don't you remember?”

The mist of sadness seeps beneath his eyelids.
“It's okay sweetheart,” he says.
“It's just your dimming memory.”

Carefully tucking these moments back into his own remembrance,
the son places a pillow under his father’s head.

Fadeless is the patience continuing for both
during finality’s passing days.