Passers-by adorning their Sunday best,
Hiding behind their nicest masks,
Places to go, things to buy, people to please,
There's always been such status in going,
Going so fast that time seems to fly by,
The kitchen littered with the pages of calendars from years that were all but blinked away,
Which mask will look good today, what of tomorrow?
What will the others think?
Too busy to waste a seconds thought on being,
Afterall there's too much left to be done before we can make time to feel
Who has time to enjoy the living of life?
When there are places to go, things buy and people to please,
Best iron my Sunday best,
Wouldn't want the crowd to notice the cracks in my mask,
I wouldn't want them to see the face skillfully hidden beneath it,
What would they think?
Afterall, I'm nothing more than a collection of their gazes,
Because who has time for the meaning?
Life is nothing more than comedy after all,
And I am nothing more than the mask I cower behind.
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