Creative February 23 – Age



my mother fades, as though
time was an eraser, erasing
bits of her, slowly but surely.
desires, memories, abilities
fade in steadfast succession
leaving behind holes like
she was the lead star in a poster
of a movie no longer playing.
the colours of her visage
once vibrant now fading,
its lines blurring, patchy in
parts, frayed at the edges.

I wonder how she feels about
this dying of summer, this
insidious takeover of autumn.
does she feel the sap’s steady
slow-down in her veins?
does she dread the night
that it might be her last?
does she mind turning into
just an echo of the melody.

your soul is indestructible,
they say. nothing is born
nor dies. maybe it’s my
mind that’s playing a trick.
conjuring up a movie where
there is nothing but light.