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.