When I think of all the future graces,
For which I am supposed to feel so grateful-
It feels like a huge, sticky cloud
Has obscurred everything worthwhile
And sucked out whatever gladness there might have been.
I begin to understand how the aged
Might start to feel an unholy resentment
At the dawning of each successive day,
Which comes whether you desire it or not-
Even if there is nothing left to look ahead to.
Still, if all my blood somehow oxidized tomorrow,
Or the flesh crept off all the bones stealthily
To lie in rippled pools on the ground
(like the way witches melt in certain well known tales)
Know that the corporeal remains
Would still send up a reverberating joy-
The unending gratitude of the song of matter.

Patti Masterman

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-i-think-of-all-the-future-graces/