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!