People at the Library

He has grey hair

and grey beard

and a grey soul.

She is pretty

and her hair is dyed,

and her eyes are shaded

by powered glasses

with gold rim.

They talk

in soft mumble

just in front of me

as I write about them.

there are worlds

closed to us

and it’s been that way

since the dinosaurs perished

and the glaciers made and unmade

and the sea expanded and contracted

and the stars fell onto the cosmic miasma.

It’s always been the affliction

and one doubts things will change.

They walk away,

smiling, talking and mumbling.

I don’t know their words,

and the faces are unfamiliar

but the affliction is the same,

of him and her

and me

and the flag on the moon

that will eventually lose all colour

and the grand canyon

that will one day whittle down to nothing

sanded into oblivion.

the solitary dreams

one sees

will always stay.

Separating worlds,

dividing walls,

windows rattling with

the force of the wind

and the owls outside

flying home.

We are afflicted

with true and total individuality.

What is this  really

and how do we overcome?