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Sage

The first emotion is fear,
Not yours, well...maybe actually.
You'll taste its peppery musk on the tongue tip,

It coats the cracks in the sage green circular corridor,
inside this, a
Mental health institution.

(Three words that should never be best friends)

Sage, oh the irony.
A circular corridor ( designed for dementia patients)
Can you actually believe that?

Round, and round they go,
Searching for home, or,
A loved one, long dead,
To make sense of these layers of memory,
Their flaky pastry minds,
Still sweet, or today, as it goes, volcanic anger
Randomly noisy, aggressive, pitiful, tearful,...lonely.

It's not a forgiving place to spend contemplating life's unanswerable questions.
The walls multiply your fear.
Sit, awhile here, with me instead then,
We'll wait counsel from the sage walls,
And guess how long it takes the antler moth beating it's life force against the window,
To finally give up.

Poetry by Cowtrotter
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