Delusional

Do I delude myself that I can write,
or is it fanciful simulation,
born in the annals of boredom or sloth.

Do those who read my triflings feel pity,
like pathetic fallacy trapped in thoughts
my brain indulges and encapsulates.

Idle tears, if they could fall, would trickle
in oceans of morose narcissism,
dousing my ego and drowning sorrows.

Do I survey fields of autumnal bliss,
in my journey into these twilight years,
when time should be my master not my slave.

Or is this sense of loathing Alzheimer’s?
Does it message, or presage, disaster -
am I the only one who can’t see it?

Like the sole, silent witness to my crime,
my mind sinks low below the underworld,
in which I harbour grief in nature’s yawn.