Ode to Alzheimer’s

She sits and stares 
At space and I wonder 
Where her train of thoughts takes her now?
She then smiles absentmindedly at me
What fragment of a well-worn life
Passes her broken mind?
I ask myself.

She asks my name
I tell her patiently
She has already forgotten 
That it has been told, just a while before.
She reaches out with trembling hands
I clasp hers and steady
Her hand in mine.

Oh, Alzheimer!
You stole this sweet woman!
I shudder as I watch her face
Turn blank again and as she whimpers soft
Lost in her fractured memory
My tears begin to fall
Uninvited.

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Anne Adarsh

Anne Adarsh is a radiologist by profession but finds herself repeatedly returning to her first love in all things. Poetry. A self-confessed Recluse also blessed (or cursed perhaps!), with an insatiable curiosity to learn new things, writing to her, means a landscape in her mind's eye, to which she can always escape to, whenever life closes in on her.

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