On Senility

 

Perhaps we go utterly senile

by way of escape. For the mind

is an otherwise constant presence, and ever-accessible file.

The evidence against us, which we endlessly seek and find

we long to discover erased and nothing left to remind.

And though life’s not really an endless trial,

yet our dreams and what is real mostly are misaligned.

 

Perhaps we go utterly senile

because we seek kindness, somewhere in exile,

from our own constant judgements against us, cleverly designed

to lead us nowhere, through brambled tracks, mile after mile.

 

By way of escape (for the mind

in senility forgets everything of importance, previously defined

by one’s relationship to it, and how it seemed for a while

significant) all that’s left behind

is an otherwise constant presence, and ever-accessible file

of nonsense and vague connections and thoughts which make us smile.

 

The art of confabulation, combining the non-combined

becomes our constant distraction as again we try and compile

the evidence against us, which we endlessly seek and find

is now entirely unreliable.  So, purblind

we are at last free, to reconcile

us to ourselves but lack the facility and so remain self-maligned.

And stuck in a habit we hardly revile

perhaps we go utterly senile.