Slipping Time

Each morning he rises a little bit slower,
Each evening he shuffles to bed,
And each day a little bit more of himself
Seeps silently out of his head.

Undoing of time is a curious thing,
An erasure of all that is past,
And each day another memory dies,
A dwindling down to the last.

The faces of loved ones are blurred now,
Though occasionally one reappears
And the most lucid of moments
Are the ones he’d forgotten for years.

Each decade now is unraveling
Each brilliant thought fades to black
And too soon the road he’s been traveling
Will disappear right off the map.

Each evening it’s getting harder.
Is his toothbrush the blue or the red?
And tomorrow the edges will darken
As another bit slides from his head.