Hi. How are you?
"Fine," you say. That's Good.
Oh, me--I'm okay.
You say the family's okay, too,
but it really isn't up to you,
for who are you and I to say
whether he, or she or they're okay?
How is anyone to know
with all the masks a face can show;
it takes an eternity just to know
ourselves.
One should not take for granted
how another dwells.

Why is it that our faces lie,
when the Master within lives forever,
while they must surely die?
It is human primal fear--that's why.
We're afraid of loosing the only thing we own--
we within ourselves, alone, are lost!
True. And where to go from here?
This way. . . that way. . .
any-which-way's okay. . . or is it?

If we would look inside and sincerely see,
there all truth and light would be;
then we wouldn't feel afraid and alone
anymore.
But fear is the one state truly known--
it is the one face all men have shown;
we don't want to let it go.

What's that? You're runnin' late.
Uh-huh. I got too close
and made you curious,
you wanted to peek--
scared to death, I know.
We humans always are.
But don't worry, there's always
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. . .

Written in the winter of 1979, this was my first effort at poetry. I was 17. Recently, I have adjusted a word or two for strength.