of his memory
could no longer be
relied upon to retain
the images his heart
had learned to paint
with words and fragments
of the vernacular.
Instead all that left
his lips - straight away
from his mind -
were mumbles;
inarticulate globs
and ineffectual shards
of the language he had
and still admired.
It cut him
deep, as he could
still feel the feel
that caused him to want
to weave metaphors
with the warp and weft
of meaning and repose.
He was left unsure
in his aging skin and
thinning bones;
unable to craft what
lived for the adornments
of others' days and
people afar off.
Unable to make the
sounds inside that
gave him elevation
and song -
flight to the heights.
He had learned to
only know his him
by the words of what
he had been among,
the places and the feel
of his friendships and
ambles along life's beauty
ridden road and endless
expanse of wonder.
Now, no longer able
to tell, he was singularly
only able to be.
And that,
that halved him.
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