It’s Time
The tears I shed
alone in bed
things unsaid
in my head
dripping down
as I frown
bite back the gasp
of time
past
a memoir
a Renoir
a masterpiece
and you’re going
the tears continue flowing
the furrow
the sorrow
of the lonely tomorrow . . .
The tears I shed
alone in bed
things unsaid
in my head
dripping down
as I frown
bite back the gasp
of time
past
a memoir
a Renoir
a masterpiece
and you’re going
the tears continue flowing
the furrow
the sorrow
of the lonely tomorrow . . .
He said, “you always were my little angel,”
in another time in another place,
when I had another face,
his little girl before.
The illness took his mind. He couldn’t find
the essence of who he was.
I tried and tried to see ,
if he recognised me,
everytime I went,
the illness didn’t relent,
It was sad,
I wanted my Dad,
but there was nothing we could do,
he was hidden within the maze of the brain and he would never be the same.
As time goes on and age sits in,
I always think back to that day when,
his eyes dim, looked at me to say,
“You were always my little angel.”
These poetic works emerge alongside the research, functioning as immediate expressions of voice, identity, and transformation.