adventures in dysthymia

Friday, January 16, 2009


These walls between life and death
grow thin. Some nights, the muffled noise
of eternity wakens her,
whispers from another room.

Most of yesterday is lost
in that murmured cacophony,
her husband's voice, the names of the dead.
Where has her husband gone? He slept

at her side a moment ago.
Each memory's become a sheet
of paper, torn and reassembled,
pasted into random collage.

Again, she listens, puts her ear
to these walls. Ah, those voices:
she should know them, but why has someone
replaced the photos that once hung there?

Replaced them all with strangers and echoes
of old songs. Who will dance now?
Who will hold her when the walls
between life and death grow thin?

Stephen Brooke ©2009

1 comment:

pineyflatwoodsgirl said...

Thank you for this poem, Stephen. I'm here in the hospital with my dad and mom. Dad had some surgery and now we are all going home so I can care for both of them. As you may know my mom's memory has faded. But the songs, those winsome, bawdy, sultry, joyous songs of the forties, are all still there.