Such an insipid existence is thine,
so how can you say you're doing fine;


You know that one fine or not so fine day,
if you were simply to fly away,
you'd be missed but like a stray feather,
which gave tender but temporary pleasure;


You know that were you to seal your lips,
its not the loss of your words that'd be mourned
rather the peace of your silence welcomed,
your unbearable quietude ardently adorned;


You know that were you to hide yourself
just to see where someone may look for you,
you'd find them sitting unconcernedly, at ease,
resting and perhaps a bit relieved too;


You know that were you to walk out or away,
it would be some long miles on your own,
before you decide to walk back the way you came,
for you'd rather have company oblivious to you, 
than be obviously alone..


So when they clash, the lonesome and the banal,
the fear of solitide beating the one of ennui,
you know then that come rain, storm or sunshine,
you'd better look happy and say you are doing fine..