and all my tomorrows,
will flow into a rivulet,
of no more,
and this stream will sink
into the earth,
not even a moist spot
will mark the end,
all my yseterdays,
and all my tomorrows
will go up in smoke
spirling upward and outward,
or unmoving, blend as
a mixture and compound,
perhaps unnoticed,
perhaps unfound.
perhaps unseen,
perhaps unbound,
no, - when I cross the bar,
there remains a legacy,
to seek to find
and would not yield,
shimon weinroth
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/all-my-yesterdays/
