Conspicuous, an odd man out.
Sticking out like a sore thumb
From the hand of this aeon and age.
On a sinking iceberg, I'm the tip,
Struggling to survive, somehow afloat;
A broken guitar string that can't be strummed;
In a world of white, I'm all beige;
Crusty, like an ancient book's page.
I'm the elaborate satin ball-gown,
Surrounded by denims and lace.
Where women lead, a man I need,
To hold me closer, to set the pace.
I'm the sheet music of forgotten melodies,
In a time when lyrics are not sung, but spoken.
I live in the past, in my distant memories,
With a voice unheard, my heart yet unbroken.
