It’s the small things,
Like the forgotten names of someone loved,
Or the thing you’ve left in the room above,
Or the way the reason why you went to the kitchen,
Is swallowed up as you cross the door,
Are all of these just signs of aging?
Or maybe simply senior moments?
Perhaps the lip of a greater darkness,
An event-horizon of some dark hole?
Am I standing on the edge of oblivion,
Waiting for this disease to eat my soul?