Poem: another white hair

another day has passed, in maybe what is another time,

adding another wrinkle with another moment gone again,

and there must be time to think about the situations,

in a little slice of quiet and a little further away from everyone,

but when the chatter doesn’t seem to dissipate long enough

no matter how short or long the respite, the problem remains,

and how can we save only one when growing older proves

inevitable and our fingers on the pulse continues turning normality

into white hairs seen everywhere, among us all, among many

planes, a solution reserved for no one in particular