Where will I be?

Where will I be when I die?

Oh, I daren’t ask. But wonder,

Will my hands be tearfully

Enveloped by bleary eyed sods

Of which I can call my own.

Or, even empty, sorrowfully,

Cold, bitter, and cruelly alone.

Where will I be when I’m old?

A proud old fool? Feeding pigeons

On old benches, near beaches,

With a proud old wife, joyfully

Pressed closely against my side?

Or will I even remain kind?

Resentful at the life I find.

Where will I be in ten years?

Where will my career even be?

Will I have a home? Live free?

Will I be respected enough?

Or will I respect myself?

Maybe, even, my aspirations,

Might wilt, dusted on a lonely shelf.

Where will I be in a year?

Will I bravely pursue my dreams?

Maybe, I dread, I will have

Yielded, bitterly, to begrudged

Cowardly true Pessimism.

Will there be a day, perhaps so soon,

That I loosen that weary optimism?

Where will I be tomorrow?

Will this be when I surrender?

Awake far too tired, retire,

From all that, which I wish to be?

My mark not even a stain.

Will this force me rancorous? A daft,

Angry fool, enraptured in disdain.

Where, even, am I today?

I worry about tomorrow.

I fear for days after that.

Prudently measuring choices

with ambiguity ahead.

I tread carefully, behest of the

Dominoes onward, that which I dread.

And, well, where was I before?

Very much of the very same.

Anxious preparation of

Mistakes to be made yesterday.

Fussing at choices in range.

With each and every day, I ask the

Question. Will I ever truly change?