Ideas are molecular, retreating, galaxies shifting
into the red; What was known has blurred,
a slow, insidious progress into the invisible. Pills
gobbled, are like dreams of eternal life,
hobble on to futility, to fantasy, a pervasive magic,
and one wonders if the process, once started,
can ever be reversible. Soon I may enter
a room, not knowing why I am there,
turn, and walk out again. Without a thought.
With no more than a shrug. The original
in dissolution, a ghost encounter, the transcendent
passage of seasons.