We all have good days and some that feel grey,

Moments of sunshine, then clouds in the way.

As we get older, they blend into one,

I sometimes forget whether I’m in trouble or just having some fun.

 

It’s not dementia of that I am sure,

It is just that my memory has become rather poor.

I walk in a room with a confident stride,

Then stand there confused with my mouth open wide.

 

Was I looking for my glasses, my phone, or my tea?

Or perhaps I was simply just looking for me?

The mirror’s no help, it just giggles and sighs,

Revealing my wrinkles, it hasn’t learned to tell lies.

 

So I’ll chuckle along, with my slippers in tow,

And enjoy all the places my mind doesn’t go.

For aging, it seems, is a comical art,

A circus performed by the brain of an old fart.