There are no guarantees in life, they say,
no measure of time to me allotted,
no way to know if this my final day
might be, no chart wherein each hour plotted.

And if such chart were within my grasp,
would I truly want to extend my hand,
to hold my future secure in my clasp,
to know which days dismal and which ones grand?

I could hide from disappointment's sadness,
emerge when the graph's peaks projected glee,
protect myself from the world's stark madness,
engage life only when it favored me.

But no chart was written nor would I read;
life as I want it is not guaranteed.