Sunday, December 30, 2012

Remnants/Shadow Land


Remnants of Christmas linger on,
Though most of the red and green has gone.
Here silver trees point up to the sky
Enchanting us as we walk by.
Like Dicken's ghost of Christmas past,
These ghosts weren't really made to last.

We are asked to use the words in blue

I think of the world of dementia
And I try to get a feel
For the way the  world appears to those
Whose  world has become unreal.
Is it full of ethereal nonsense
That doesn't make any  sense?
Is it effervescent or turgid,
Misty or all too dense?
Is meditation permanent,
Is perspective all askew?
Is demarcation a bottleneck
Where only the grey seeps through?
One trusts one will never know it,
That other-worldly state,
One hopes that the loss of ones own mind
Will never be ones fate.

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