Old Days

As the time between each breath increases

And remembrance of past action wanes,

So the need for scraps of life – all worthless –

Turns to rummaging inside old brains.

And the mist becomes a fog, envelops

Every fibre dying for the light.

Now the sun – a damp and hazy lampshade –

Falls again to make way for the night.

Yet for new eyes all this must be different,

And we know that it will never change.

Every day is someone’s distant memory –

Such a brutal sweet time, now so tame.

In a darkened room clasping the old days

Flickering light takes on a magic air.

From the outside things are very different:

It’s so faint that we need never care.