Ghostly
shadow mice
nibble away
at the edges
of my perception.
Their scurrying sounds
bitten off consonants
of words once important
now so much detritus
used for bedding.
Gradually
the picture window
of my world becomes
a narrowing view
framed in tiny
teeth marks.
Like a man
going slowly blind.
RG, this poem fits me to a tee, as I am going blind and not so slowly.
I hadn’t considered mice, in my case it’s diabetes.
Warm hugs,
Paul.
Hugs Paul. If it were actually mice, we could set my cat on them. I’m very sorry to hear about your diabetes. For me it’s just a combination of very bad short-sightedness, and angst.