Mum

The thought that I repeat myself,
Is driving me to tears,
It has to be among the,
Very greatest of my fears!

It's something that intrudes so much,
When talking oft to others.
I'd really rather opt to find,
A deafness of my druthers.

For ignorance is bliss they say,
And this one doth intrude.
Every time I hear it,
It's a feeling rather rude!

I know of course this should not be,
The case; it's not so nice.
Because the other doing it,
Knows not that it's a vice.

In fact they really aren't aware,
At all, that's why they do it.
The old subconscious biases,
The checks they intermit.

And the very very worse,
Which I have to endure,
My poor old Mum's failed memory,
Wants drive me to the door.

And there lies all the worse of it,
The fact I can't respond.
To do so would be hurtful,
Of belief, would be beyond.

But it's the hardest thing to do,
So much conflicting thought.
It actually hurts, to my surprise,
And leaves me so distraught.

Watching as it slowly grows,
Feeding off her mind,
Like a parasite so cruel,
To which she is resigned.

Part of the very cruelty,
Is that she's so aware.
Of her degrading memory,
And that it's so unfair.

It's funny that I cannot find,
A way to properly finish.
I think that mirrors her own state,
As function does diminish.

But only happens bit by bit,
So hard to see the change.
Upon a weekly basis,
It's the usual exchange.

But every now and then I see,
Another loss or flaw.
Makes me dread the next event,
In which I see some more.

Far better then to try ignore,
The ever creeping sign.
Knowing deep inside of me,
It one day may be mine!