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.



I know its voice

I know its size

I know its past

I know its shame.


The exiled

wants to come home.


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