Where is Mukhtiar?
The quiet of his daunting, yet vacant voice,
he’s hostile,
he greets me like a stranger,
Kindly,
But disacknowledges me.
His hollow thoughts,
They never stay.
He asks, where is my wife, at 11:32 a.m,
Recalling no one but her.
At 11:34 a.m,
He asks again.
His fractured memory,
Drowning in foreign thoughts,
Failing to remember his own granddaughter.
A Constellation of Creation 