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It seems the line between
thought and thing is blurry.
Essence escapes.
Food on his plate
is carefully investigated.
Surprised he says "it's brown"
I coach: "mmm it tastes really good"
but it lands on the floor, discarded.
Mistrust in his eyes.
Maybe he'll eat from my plate ---
it works, it is not poisoned.
I laugh and listen sadly
to the clearly told story
of how Roman emperors were killed
by eating brown, poisoned food.
An invisible force in this darkening room
runs away with reason.
Marjon vaan Bruggen
October 1015
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Author Notes
This was a very sad and difficult phase: he suspected me sometimes of poisoning his food, so I could get rid of him. Because I could no longer reason with him, I had to let go. I tried once to convince him, but he got so raging angry that I gave up.
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