Stranger, unwilling.
This is not -
My place.
It should have been.
I know it.
But it is not.
Not my place.
Not now, if ever.
Not my place,
not made for me,
nor for my type.
Not my place.
Made instead
for simpler folk.
And for a succession
of simple pleasures.
For simple minds
and simpler tasks.
But not for me.
This is not my place.
Not this place. Never here.
Not my place,
nor turned to suit my smile.
It IS turned, however.
Turned –
But not for me.
This place is turned
to the circle of the Sun
and to the wan smile it makes
when the moon is on the run.
Not my place.
Neither set to my pace
nor to my taste.
Not my place,
never built for such as me.
Built rather
for the march of days.
For days that file forth
in the rapid-fire succession of moments
we call time.
