This is a blunt, simplistic not very “wordy” poem about severe dementia. I have worked with people with severe dementia that have become bed bound for quite some time.
Incoherent desire to converse,
The short awaited hearse,
Former ballerina, typist, accountant,
Memories shattered, present blurred to obscurity,
Remnants of a graceful past pushes families to scrutiny,
And lay you wait in old age’s wicked game,
Bed sores and body lame,
Hoisted from your bed bound state,
You will only worsen its too late,
Rarely see beyond the room,
Dinner fed from a spoon,
Then pass away to infection, pneumonia,
And old friends never visited to see how you are.