It was a memory,

so close yet so far.

A ghost of my past;

a whisper in the dark.


‘Hi friend’, it said to me,

‘felt my absence, haven’t you?’

It scoffed at me,

i could see its smug.


It reminded me of all that was

till play acting became my favourite sport.

And i took to pretence

till i knew myself no more.



Some of my favourite artists were exiled;

they wrote of their homeland love.

And all the while i thought to myself-

exile can be of different kinds, they have that wrong.


Now I wonder whether i will ever be free

from the hands of my memory.

And whether i will ever move on

and build a house to call a home.



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