You have bankrupted our Nation.
You have bankrupted your soul,
when you attack the Citizens,
with your lies, above all.
Don't tell us we are
on the road to recovery,
when the loss of life
and jobs mess up our economy.
You sir are a piece of work,
for the presidential duties you shirk.

A green, colored Mule, was wandering along,
humming the melody of a beautiful song.
As he wondered, mostly out loud,
should I join up with a crowd
of people or other just like me?
Not with people as I won't fit in.
It will be with Mules; they are my kin.
What about the green shade of your skin?
Color only matters to people, there in.

You seem fine in the day time,
during the rain or sunlight.
What happens to you in the evening,
where does your mind go at night?

My mind is a flutter,
though I worry not,
about our life
and what God has begot.
Old as I am,
I think about you
and of those memories,
we had and did share,
are missing now,
as the Devil may care.
Please leave us alone,
during this long night.
Let us be now.
Let life now be right,
for I say to you,
my miserable Soul
is filled up with
your fake news hyperbole.

Oh the words, I would say to you
about all the things you do.
You cared for me, over the years.
Now I care for you
as your mind disappears .

Here we sit in our family room.
He's now on TV; a purveyor of gloom.
He lies; They spew from out his mouth.
He says East is West; North is South.
How can one believe what his words are?
He spins the truth, both near and far.

I am here.
You are not.
Our children grown,
a love sought,
from each other,
during journey's life.
We are still
husband and wife.
My thoughts gone,
from my head.
A mental state,
I now dread,
seeing you allow,
here and now,
fills my heart,
with my vow,
of loving you,
is my joy
and I do
all this for
you to see
the better part
of older me.

I write not for you.
I write not for them.
I write for myself,
for the predicament I'm in.

The harshness of Dementia,
is difficult to see,
except when you confuse,
TV Ads with reality.
"There are people there",
you now say to me.
"I don't know them,
but they're on TV."

I write the words, as they come to me.
From my mind they soon will be,
down on paper, written too hastily.
Why do my hands start to ache?
Is it because of my arthritic shake?
Old am I, like wood from the Sea
lying in the sand, alone, is me.