Dementia

His mind like a deciduous forest has shed all its leaves in the blighting autumnal blast. It is bare - dismally barren of all memories - sweet and sour. Like a kite afloat in the boundless sky moving nowhere, but as the wind directs, cut out from the past, turned from the present with the future yet to surge from the abyss or like serpents intertwining, hissing in turmoil within the brain, unable to sense the gusty blast, or hear the whispering air, dead to sounds that disturb, deaf to songs that soothe, like a phantom he moves weird, drifting far away to a space and time impenetrable with nothing to make the mind agog or depress it to let out a sigh. Loitering on roads without hurrying feet with no bliss coming on the way to run or hasten to embrace or fear to be missed so sore passing through dark labyrinthine tunnels forever barred with no exit churned in oblivion, oblivious of all, he remains a spectral facsimile of his one time self with dreary nights ahead that shall not know another morrow.