How are you I ask as my greeting,
I am fine, I answer, not waiting for your unspoken questions,
I tell tales about how I and other people do,
Our day to day lives, As I look at you,
A gray and beaten old face, upon your name inlaid on stone.
For my every visit not too long or short,
Until I recall your person waiting,
Forgive my laziness, I confess,
Your halted place is convenient to visit,
You will always be here, immobile,
I do ponder, will this truly matter?
You my dear friend have passed on,
I come here to speak to a slab of rock,
Words and numbers inscribed, tell me where you lie,
But below the earth rests, merely a cold pile of bones.
I did not have the same faith you hold to the almighty above,
Nor do I believe in the unseen Heaven where souls go,
I never bother to question what is there beyond,
Life goes on until we fall to death,
Nothing more, nothing less.
Yet a small part of me still seeks,
To come and speak of my days beyond yours,
Perhaps a little of your faith touched me,
Or this shows how much I miss you,
To make me sentimental enough for me to speak to stone.
