I asked you the other day,

a simple question you might say.

I wondered if you would ever tell me

the meaning of life or the way you see.

I know there are influences we cry,

those that help everyone understand why.

I just would rather a different time

to realize our lives are nothing close to sublime.

We’re average folks, you and I are wee

in the scheme of things we seem to be

a nuisance, annoyance, hindrance I suppose

the sort that might just die if we our lives expose.

We hide ourselves inside a facade of truth

always ready to point out, label them uncouth.

Yet when they fly, when a ghost of presence exist

its memory of their adamant love we insist.

I’d rather know ahead of time I would bother to ask

And respond you will with always silence is your task.