The Vexed Hunter of the Mind

O, Intellect, pure Flame and vital Breath!

From what cold Chaos dost thou now retreat?

Thou art the quarry I pursue to death,

With Love as Guide, and memory’s worn-out feet.

I seek the Self, that Ideal once so clear,

Whose glorious form no earthly taint might sear.

But find a labyrinth where the pathways cease,

And Silence dwells where once was Thought's increase.

I am the Hunter who must bear the shame,

To call a Name that answers but the same

Empty Reflection from a well profound,

Where echoes mock, and certainty is drowned.

I show thee tokens of a brighter Day,

A sacred Image, or a Vow we swore,

And watch the swift, celestial light decay,

Ere Recognition reaches the final shore.

The chase is endless, and the capture naught.

A sigh of air for what the Spirit sought.

I find no foe of Steel, no chains of Night,

But a corruption of the inner Light.

A slow, sure ruin, where the bonds of Time

Undo the architecture of thy prime.

This is the bounty of my mournful quest,

To hold the hand and find the Soul suppressed.

The Aethereal Foe that lays the Spirit low,

And brings us back with emptiness to show,

Is that slow Tide which no control can claim

The Tragedy of that dreaded Name:

Alzheimer's Flame.

Author's note: This poem was written in memory of my grandmother who struggled with Alzheimer's for 15 years