My atrophy progresses
while all about me,
life dresses
as a fancy woman.

What next will I lose?
My eyes?
My ears?
Already my legs, feet,
arms, hands,
my breathing,
my voice.
I don't get to choose.
I wake up one morning
and something else is gone.

Is is God's plan
that I go on clearly and
slowly watching myself die
or just a simple quirk
of nature?
Probably a little bit of both
The former to keep me modest
the latter to keep me humble

But I keep going and,
As I become less,
I am more

Only threads hold
what is left
They turn to molten gold
mixed with iron
and harden to keep me strong
in soul
if not in body.

Each morning a gift,
each experience savoured,
each kind word
hangs in the centre
of my mind
until it drops
and spreads
into the crystal pool
that is me.