My Life Is a Cliché

When I recall the spilt milk of my youth I want to cry regardless of all the water that has passed under the bridge.  On quiet nights I often find myself looking back across those bridges that I burned so long ago and still I see all my misserable yesterdays like so many wind blown leaves swirled into a great pile on the ground. Now even bushel baskets full of yesterdays won't buy me one more day. But peering ahead over the distant fence where the grass is much greener I am seeing all my tomorrows lined up neatly in a row.