I: Sonnet for the Demented

There are but few who taste the hemlock blue,

While fortune swings like necks from noose and nail;

A minute gone they follow through in queue,

So spared the withered touch of Time gone frail.

If choosing first, then Time will stalk the mind,

And steady quick yet slow concealed from prey;

As hunters know to never scare the find,

In careful step, it bides itself each day.

Oh, Memory! The jigsawed tower self!

How easily you crumble from a tap!

A single book that Time removes from shelf,

And into piles left upon his lap.

Through glass, reflects a stranger mirror cast,

Each ageless moment til you breath your last.

• March 2025