This time next year,

Will my feet still be planted here?

Will I stand proud, unabashedly myself, with no fear?

 

This time next year,

Will I have a new title or role that I will pioneer?

Or will I still be living in a future that is unclear?

 

This time next year,

Will I shed more than a tear?

Could it be that that in another life, to the right, I’ll veer?

 

This time next year,

Will my feelings be more sincere?

Or will I feel from others as a trait domineered?

 

This time next year,

Will I win with victory and hold up my spear?

Or would I rather jump off the pier?

 

This time next year,

Will my vision for another day be blear?

Or will it be a scrapbook filled memories, zier?

 

This time next year,

What promises will I hear?

Will I only be consumed with work, or have dreams and scribbled notes in my journal that are dog-eared?

 

This time next year,

Will I leap like a fallow deer?

Or through the window will I peer?