crazy

Truth left on Friday,
said she’d be back sometime,
 
though p’raps somewhat out
of sense or rhyme,
 
tomorrow by yesterday
 
wither pocketbook inner
nickel inner dime.
 
I worry she’s lost again
today an’ the other day,
 
an’ weal never finder then,
by neither next week nor last,
 
for neither social talk
nor pleasant parks to walk,
 
nor pheasant repast.
 
she’s forgetful, you know,
an’ needs noun then a curt reminder
 
to pointer home an’ then rewinder.
 
it’s crazy, I know,
but that’s the way it is
 
with dementia
Essentia.
 
in the meantime, all we have
is lies to go on,
 
an’ weal just curry on.
 
Truth’s just gone;
she’s left an’ she will not arrive.
 
I fear she’s not no more with us,
nor was she never,
 
nor was apt to be now
nor will be ever.
 
Truth’s not longer with us;
an’ though she’s not quite dead,
 
she’s no longer yet alive.