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.