I have met and observed others treading the hallowed ground of this dementia, the Lewy Body disease. This poem is a tribute to one such fellow traveler.
She of the perpetual sorrow
She carries her dread but is
Not sure what it is she fears
Her fear is real but she fears
It may be just the dread of a
Distant indistinct nightmare
She dreads encountering now
When awake; her fear is real
Yet she imagines it may not
Be timely or timed right but
Is only a dread she imagines
And carries into the daylight
Where nightmares dissolve
For others, but not for her.
this is our life 