Thinking to myself,
in the dudgeon of my
      honest introspection,
that sunset comes regardless
      of contemplation.

Sunset does not matter.
      Sunset won't appear,
      no matter how far off
        it seems to be.

Each day blurs into
      a sameness that
        is so predictable.
I brush my hair
      with determination,
        ignoring the grey
          that is there.

Age is a state of mind,
      the foolish say.
Perhaps so?
However, the body
      may disagree.

Each day a blurring
      of nodding heads in
        kaleidoscope resentments.

Sunset hints at its' coming.
      Shadows filtered
        by bludgeoned space.

I am alone.