I am lost in time.
I know your face — who are you?
Just wait, who am I?
A dabbler, a story teller.
How does it work?
Dementia is beyond words. It’s rough.
More stories from Kristen Haveman and writers in Poets and other communities.
Tick — a startled cry Training wheels and studying Tock — a lonely grave
By Kristen Haveman3 years ago in Poets
Sleepless nights bathed in the light of the droning TV, familiar music and memories, I travel back to 2015 in my mind. -
By Reece Beckett7 days ago in Poets
Shall we run the human condition Through the view of a thing with no eyes? Will that give us clarity into the ache Of existence or will it dampen the fear
By Silver Daux7 days ago in Poets
Before they departed for the funeral it rained, heavy drops lashing the rocky drive along the edges of the parked cars even as the sun shone eerily in the distance. As quickly as it began it stopped a few minutes later, the water that cascaded a few moments earlier down Young Street rising in curling waves of steam.
By John Cox8 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Dementia is beyond words. It’s rough.