The wound of exile refuses to get healed.
The ghost of one’s nostalgic past,
And the fairy of glorious future, designed
A division that refuses to get sealed.
I think continually of wanderers
Who went far and wide in search
Of the mirage called “home”,
A piece of land that one calls one’s own.
Irony is that no true “home” exists
Anywhere in the bounds of mind.
It is built, demolished and abandoned
To the storms of vagabond passion.
Isolation, inner or outer, will coexist,
No matter how far you go. She knows no border,
No human is foreign to her, the enchantress
Of alienation will bewitch you,
Haunt you and embrace your heart.
I think of those who wander in exile,
Perhaps they had to choose between
Death and life, And they chose life in exile.
Perhaps they had to run for sanity.
Their owned world turned hostile.
That insane world didn’t spare their smiles,
Didn’t house their self-esteem, and
Chased their aspirations and dreams.
The exile of place is better
Than the exile of Life, thought they.
Copyright ©️ 2021 Vipanjeet Kaur- VJ Poetic Musings