My Plastic Sunlight Room

The sunlight's got a look
like plastic out my picture
framed window, but inside against
the white paint chipped sill everything
looks old and dusty and oil painted,

I can see every layer of the third
dimensional space getting older
and even myself, my cells bursting,
dying, aging, bursting, dying, the slow
process of death washing over me,
inevitable,

I watch the plastic sun smiling,
giving off no heat, only shadow light,
but still beautiful and somehow new,
new even though it is
untold billions of years across time
and running the same old route everyday
unfathomable,
and I am here forgetfully insignificant
hung up mourning the irony of the number 27