Sonnet: Old Age

Things are moving fast and I'm a little confused

By the mad rush of events swirling all around.

I tell myself I'm an olding man not quite toast,

But smell I'm almost ready, shower twice a day.

It's one thing and another, no hope, not a ray

Of ethos; I miss teleology the most.

Scattered brain thoughts and demented yodels abound.

I'm one step beyond the darkness of men, I mused.

The monster balls feature fools and freak show sweeties,

The one-man waltzes turn into tarantellas;

Headlines scream: They're waterboarding Archimedes;

AI hallucinations become bestsellers.

So what am I supposed to do in my old age,

Become a happy panpsychist and bubble sage?