Drip, drip, drip

As we grow older

small invisible

pores form in our skulls

and from them (like holes

in water tanks) drip

thoughts and ideas,

and memories of

recent times (being

closer to surface

of the mind), and wit

and concentration,

and names of people

once known like brothers

and sisters, and new

appointments, and old

research written by

me (apparently).

Quite soon the tank of

my mind I thought so

full will empty, like

dams drying in this

fearsome drought of my

old age.

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