Like a snowman in the Sahara, or
Yesterday in tomorra, or
A Christian in Valhalla,
Out of place is my space.
In search of solace and a solar bun,
Mining in vain for a seam of fun,
Hunting for spikes for a race that’s run,
A shut-up shop is my lot.
In the hall of mirrors where I sleep,
Fractured reflections are all it keeps,
Glass splinters in skin make me weep,
I just cannot see, how to be.