Few who are suffering from this disease can say this with any force of conviction, much less remember that it’s even evening, or that the last word was supposed to be “Destruction”. Malapropism is fun, but not when your brain, along with your body, is failing you…
Each week The Sunday Whirl invites writers to write a poem or short prose using some or all of the “wordle’s” 12 words. This week it is:
I Don’t Believe I’m on the Eve of Dementia: Malapropism
There’s a rift in my bones, I say phoo-ey.
I hate to complain,
but I cannot sustain
how longing I’m getting mildew-y
So downward and downwards I go.
I stutter, my language is slow.
I’m baffled each night
as my fears each take flight.
Like the horse placed in front of the cart,
Roll me off of that cliff, please have heart.
It’s not a malaprop
to have an absence of “Stop!”
‘Cause it’s well past the time to depart.