June 15, 2012 by The Citron Review
Squirming through my skin,
moulting once again.
Roots flailing like rotting driftwood,
thrashed against the merciless shore.
Home awaits the weary traveller,
to comfort and offer solace.
No home awaits me,
mere bricks and scattered memories.
Lost in the folds of memory,
a withered identity beyond recall.
Long misplaced by the wayside,
forever gone, vanished in mist.
As skin moults with dreary repetition.
No home, no place of solace.
For I left myself in a half-forgotten alley,
forever wishing for the way home.
Afzal Moolla was born in Delhi, India while his parents were in exile, working as anti-Apartheid activists for the African National Congress. Afzal subsequently travelled wherever his parent’s work took them. He still feels that he hasn’t stopped travelling. He works and lives in Johannesburg, South Africa and shares his literary musings with his most strident critic – his 12 year old cat.