108/2023

To watch her drift into
Forgetting was a forgettable
Tragedy because she was dying,
And although the freedom
I would feel afterwards was not
Apparent then, it would be
A release for us both.

To see her slide into
Not recognising me as me
Was something that hurt more
Than I would have imagined,
And the last days I spent
There were a theatre of
False courage by me, and
An invented personality
By the sweary vicar’s
Daughter whose faith
Must have finally broken.

R 18/04/2023 20:22

I was going to write a load of stuff, but the last three hours of today have wearied me beyond measure, because I’ve been battling away designing a new Aggie cover, rejigging the internal layout, and getting cross at myself because I’m writing all my poetry straight into this machine rather than handwriting it in my notebook first. I don’t like the way that’s going. I need to exercise my physical, not just my mental, writing muscles.