This wrenching, middle-of-the-night poem is for the day nine NaPoWriMo prompt:
. . . write a persona poem — a kind of dramatic monologue . . . pick a character to inhabit . . . someone you’re not . . . and write in their voice.
Dementia
Of course I always knew
trust no one but still
my mind the one solid thing
it slips.
I hear the call
to prayer. Beautiful. I used to pray
and fast. I still fast
but on my own schedule.
Time, it’s meaningless.
Trust love least of all.
Those you trust best
the most treacherous.
Degenerative. Terminal. Degenerative.
Memories I’m not always
sure I thought
sometimes I’m delusional
was I wrong?
Do you hear that?
Fuck ‘em if they won’t
Fuck
What time is it?
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