She’s getting up when the sun goes down,
Her days and nights all turned around,
She talks about people only she can see,
Her mind stays lost in a fog of history.
Years ago she dyed her hair black,
Trying to get a youthful appearance back,
I wonder if she ever tried taillight red,
Or if she thought about the days ahead.
She’s fading fast like the spots on her eyes,
Her speech doesn't make sense but she still tries,
The cold fingers of January reach into her heart,
Little by little her memories are torn apart.
Like Hitchcock’s birds, her thoughts fly away,
She’s a bride dressed in yellow on a hot July day,
Paintings of moments lived out through the ages,
End up as blank stares from nearly vacant pages.
Now the sun is coming up and she’s ready to sleep,
She may be laughing or she might weep,
Give me the strength Lord, to see this through,
Let me show her love and kindness in everything I do.
© Dianna Doles Petry