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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful write on sunset dayss and moments...greying is inevitable. Sunset set long shadows and the disappear, only to rise again with new birth and a new life the next day. We have hope.