We don’t belong. We are not like the others.
And knowing this we do not want to know them.
Their standards are to us a plastic bubble
Which they can’t share with us nor can we show them
How we differ. We are quite alone.
And in our loneliness still need no part
Of peoples’ platitudes and their show of friendship
Which we can tell does not come from the heart.
We recognise our kind if we should cross them,
And even then suspiciously we’ll stand aside.
Perhaps it’s better so – and better not
To know if it is them, or us, that’s died