Squirming through my skin,
moulting once again.
Roots flailing like rotting driftwood,
bashed upon 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 time.
As skin moults with dreary repetition.
No home, no place of solace.
For I left myself in a half-forgotten alley,
While I forever trawl for the way home.