Whispers Through the Glass

A splitting difference,

my mind deceives—

between what’s now

and make-believes.

Children laugh

beyond the pane,

yet names escape me

once again.

A doll in hand,

a skipping rope,

their joy once mine—

a tender hope.

But now my world

is pale and gray,

the past and present

slip away.

The sun is warm

on window’s light,

but shadows stretch

within my sight.

I reach for thoughts

that twist and fade,

my memory

a ghost parade.

A tea set waits

on porcelain dreams,

a garden swing

in golden gleam.

But I am lost

in looping air,

recalling faces

that aren’t there.

They call me "Nana"—

is that me?

Their voices hum

uncertainly.

I smile to please,

though not quite sure

if they are real,

or something more.

Each day I stay,

a little less,

a slow retreat

from consciousness.

My essence thins

like morning mist,

the world I knew

no longer exists.

Yet through the glass,

life dances on—

a fleeting song,

a childhood gone.

The tether frays

but still holds tight

to dreams that flicker

out of sight.

A girl once played

where they now run,

with braided hair

and setting sun.

She whispered hopes

to winds that roam—

now lost inside

this twilight home.

So let them play

and let them be,

while I drift down

this memory sea.

Though I forget

the world’s design,

these fading thoughts

were once all mine.