The Trite Truth

An old women wastes away

An old women shifts in a rocking chair
Her fingers crooked, scalp almost bare
With reminiscence of sweet memory's care
That now has vanished, left her sitting there
Still she cries, "I want to go home," into thin air.

An old women lays in bed at night
But it is not her bed in which she sleeps tight
A room shared by another patient, also wasting to white
While memory slips from her, leaving a stinging bite
It dances around, teasingly announcing its flight
And still she cries, "I want to go home," despite.

An old women sits at the end of a hallway
Her eyes drifting down, body slouching day to day
Without knowledge of who it was that told her he'd pray
She sits to the point of stagnancy, no longer can she crochet
In a way she still says "I want to go home," in defray

An old women's family visits her twice every week
To spend time with her, its the least they could think
Her daughter speaks with her, attempting to repair a missing link
She hasn't yet adjusted to the old women's brink
After every visit she gets flown high off of drinks

Because the women tells her "I want to go home,"
Isn't it ironic? That old women will never return
The only way she ever could is within an urn
But the family prefers never to think of that concern.

Author's Note

This poem is actually based off of the visits to my 92 year old great grandmother who I love very much. Unfortunately she has to be in a nursing home since no one would be home with her at all hours of the day. Its hard on my family but since she had dementia it is better for her than being home.