In ever-tighter circles in his brain
His thoughts revolved and dug a deeper groove—
Again he told his stories, and again,
As if by repetition they’d improve,
Except that he’d forgotten that we knew
Them all by aching heart and pestered head,
Held captive to his narrative review
Until at last he'd dim and lose the thread.
Some kind of hellish circle that must seem,
Condemned forever to retrace your track,
Imprisoned in the bubble of a dream
And seeing by degrees your brain go black.
Lord, spare us from dementia such as this—
Are we not made for wisdom and for bliss?