My Poetry. Alzheimers Disease.

I visit you regularly,
you are still my Mam.
But your memory is faltering,
you think my name is Pam.
Your hair has turned gray,
you look weary and older;
the staff are so clinical here,
offering only a cold shoulder.

You remember the clear times
when you were a child,
but the present escapes you—
and the lack of control drives you wild.
The outside world is now strange;
you cry when you are out.
You are constantly medicated—
What is this life all about?

Bedtime is a waking nightmare;
your mind wanders on and on.
You cannot recall your own children,
from the moment of Jack to Dawn.
Your grandkids miss you fiercely,
especially the warmth of your smile,
always asking for you,
every once in a painful while.

The silence in this room is heavy,
a profound sadness we must bear.
The history of a life well-lived
dissolves on the cold air.

But you are still loved and cherished,
by family and devoted friends,
and you will be forever,
until this devastating pain finally ends.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025