The infinite dark horizon looms close,
a daily mind to innate sense of I
that oblivionís breathless, undying oath
waits yawning inevitable nearby.
Blessed habits, big and small, distract in
ritual rote a perception harbor
where attention dwells without a dread spin
into grave thoughts of death's silent uproar.
Memories of childhood epiphany
emerge here and there clear from nowhere
with an absoluteness matched only
by two minutes ago forgot despair.
There is wisdom in I donít care as much,
or perhaps, it's just a doddererís crutch.