Old age is a time of disconnect.
Time alive is time to collect all sorts of sensation.
Contemplation requires the stuff of thought.
Of observation, anticipation, raw material,
In flashes, discrete or serial,
To recollect, inspect as significant or not.
What levers sensible reaction,
At times incomprehensible,
Can wriggle aimlessly
In vacuums of non-response.
The mind does not mind,
Does not obey the regularities
Illusion fabricates connectivities
Out of confusion.
Similarities out of color, shape
That would normally escape
Attentions of convention
Invite themselves like strangers
Slipping in through unlocked doors.
They sit and glare at one, uninvited.
One cannot offer a polite
Cup of tea to these intruders.
They threaten, appear at night
Or at a pause of reminiscence.
They oppress, but can. sometimes,
Express the illusive repressed uncatchable
That resolves some uneasy finality.
So the chase persists.
Scampering after black cats
In midnight alleyways.
No matter how intensely
They are sought,
They are, perhaps,