Poem: The Descending Alzheimers Miasma

The Descending Alzheimer’s Miasma
 So casual… yet so cruelly… a miasma slowly closes in,
shrouding the mind of any logical semblance in thinking,
harshness of a voice can be as acrid crystals of frost,
the sting in tongue having more venom than poison ivy,
when lost in the shadowland betwixt angels and demons,
languishing in the waiting-room of bewilderment’s world,
dementia descends as a miasma…
without want… or warning…
 
Barry