The point is made, the argument succeeds:
There’s likely lots of future left for me.
I’m bound to have experiences, needs
corrupted or fulfilled. Most probably
I’ll love again, and certainly I’ll cry.
For sure there are tomorrows to be tasted,
emphatic times to know before I die.
And yet I have this feeling that I’m wasted
(and not the way I’d punly like to be,
consistent with my 60s history).
The sunset seals each day and not again
shall any of us live it. As of then
it’s gone and all of us are one day nearer
to our ends, and nothing has come clearer.