Our pristine eyes lock with dementia
outside the state of sanity, who had once
comforted us so well.
Here we are -- wiser, older,
all the more untrusting.
Too young to belong with them,
too old to be loved by them
all the same, wanting more than them.
Hoping for a casket to call our own.
Yet, why would we search
with the phantasmagoria of splendor
when there is nothing here for us to see
and no where to go?
