The Erosion of Parkinson's Disease

The small waves lap at night incessantly, like kitten tongues against the milky shore.  Their ceaseless licking strokes erode with unseen strength; carressing, creeping, taking.  These tiny tidal waves in secret carry the grains of sand away, like Parkinson's and age steal my vitality and vigour, depositing them on some distant ocean floor or unknown island shore.  Unrecoverable, the loss is mine.  No more the carefree beach ball days when we ignored the gritty specks between our toes or laughed in tumbling waves that left the stolen sand in every body crevasse. 

It seems that I must watch and wait until the shore is gone, and in its place unfriendly boulders lay to slow my stumbling path.  The sand that clings to cracks and grassy clods drains grain by grain, like from the famous hourglass, but now to endless seas.  It's gone so soon, too soon it seems.  And leaving me with shivers on the craggy shore once filled with barefoot bathers laying, playing, loving midst the castle dreams made of sand I dream.

I dream of shores restored by some reversal of it all that courses through my veins with victory and relief.  Or if not soon then let the sand return for those who yet might know a sunny, smiling day.  For just as beaches drift away I know that there are cliffs so steep and strong that must surrender to the waves the sand that made the softest shores.

I will not mourn the theft of sand from shores a part of me, but laugh and know that someday soon the master of the ocean's power will bring it back.  And joy can be the rhythm now of waves that wash through me.