Sipping morning coffee; every day holds the same;Age-old wrinkled eyes pour ceaselessly over the ‘Mirror’;Repeating insignificant words, and phrases;Chanting them like a mantra,Hoping it will stir some fragment of understanding; some clarity.Grasping at straws, struggling to make sense of her world. They were once bright,Beheld her surroundings in all their vivid coloursNow dimmed, fading awayGradually turning faces out of focus, blurring them outLike a camera losing its touch. Her hearing is just as badImagines music in the haunting quietWhispers to the walls, and watches over cold corpses on the bare floor.Some nights, the whispers turn to screamsPanic sets in and pierce the dark with its shrill sharp resonanceUnable to distinguish dreams from reality. Her memory follows her eyesAnd all that’s…