Squatter's Writes

I sometimes wonder whether
If the state of things to come
Results from nothing more
Than the things that I have done

I reach my destinations
Along routes forever weaving
But the reason that I got there
Is a product of my leaving

Whilst I muse upon the toilet
In a quiet and thoughtful mood
It dawns on me my seating
Is a product of my food

Had I chosen not to eat it
And instead drunk lots of wine
I may indeed be standing
At this present point in time

So to take it somewhat further
Moving back along the line
What I did, aged only ten
Reflects my life at nine

And looking to the future
When they put me in the ground
Save the glum expression
And take a look around

Upon the final hour
When Old Nick calls your time
You can rest assured its your fault
A most curious paradigm