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I have second thoughts aplenty.
Is that because I'm growing old
or just the heavy price of entry
to the land of tales all told?

Choices made or left to chance,
each leading to another place
like falling leaves which swirl and dance
while toward their final rest they race.

On some late nights I see them all.
Had I done this instead of that?
But one can't answer every call
nor wear every type of hat.

And every year adds to the toll.
Is free will a true reality
or just a loaded dice's roll,
each toss adding up to the real me?

Choices assail me late at night,
more as I face eternity.
Worries build with each hindsight.
Why can't I be content to simply Be?