The exiled

That restlessness is stirring again.

It is as if I’ve misplaced something

and am looking for it distractedly

in all the same places.

It is not there.

 

I won’t open the door

to the lurking presence

that will end my search.

I prefer to stumble and rage

in the dark.

 

It know it is waiting for me.

It does not make demands

or call out.

 

Yet—

I know its voice

I know its size

I know its past

I know its shame.

 

The exiled

wants to come home.