Villanelle for a Dementia Patient Kirsten Smith When he turns, he sees, and yet cannot see, His eyes seem to darken, lacklustre pips. He’s there to sleep but he’s looking at me.
Who am I, who could I possibly be? Am I a memory lost from his grip? He’s looking, he sees, and yet cannot see.
He sits calmly but his face disagrees With a gaze half-fulfilled, starting to slip, He’s there to sleep but he’s looking at me
Dark marbles staring out, almost a plea, What was life before? To him, a lost trip. He’s looking, he sees, and yet cannot see.
And his mind is lost, a true vacancy, Memories fleeting, they’re fading and quick. He’s there to sleep, but he’s looking at me, He’s looking, he sees, and yet cannot see.
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