Written by the Parkinson’s Poet
Narcissus-like, alone, I sit and stare
at my reflection, stunned by what I see;
I am not numbed, how’er, by beauty fair,
or graceful skin, or muscles full and free.
What holds my view is gray and thinning hair,
a face that’s blank and eyes that do not blink,
a body stiff and bent, its faults laid bare,
a trembling brain whose cells can’t help but shrink.
Unlike Narcissus though I am not stuck—
with forceful throw, I hurl a rock into
the pool and bust that sight with aim and pluck,
for I intend to paint my life anew.
I’ll fight this thing with strength and skill and grace,
and I will love each moment of the race.