At twelve life was an empty afternoon

That leaked the hours and I cared not a jot;

Endless summer break that ended too soon.

At twenty hope behind me, I feared not;

Holding love vigils, dreaming of still more;

Vocation, settled: I did, not a thing.

Two decades later: what is it all for?

Ceaseless interrogation, frittering;

Trying to come to terms with: this is it! – all.

Muttering, “it’s all random, just random;”

Then again, “nothing could have been forestalled;”

Now, adding up my mediocre sum.

Still, I eat well, sleep well, and sometimes laugh.

I haven’t done myself in – no, I’m not that daft!





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