The Perennial Exile
Alone,
a foreign body,
eliciting condescending smiles,
the exile walks on.
Though gracious intentions are spoken,
well-meaning band-aids applied,
the exile walks on.
Alone,
never shaking off the fear,
the cold, damp trepidation,
the exile walks on.
A scab on the body,
ignored as benign,
tolerated by its host,
the exile walks on.
Alone,
knowing the danger,
imminent and grave,
the exile walks on.
Alone, outside,
malleable, acceptable,
truths rarely spoken.
Fit in, shut up, pipe down,
swallow the whispers,
chew on the smirks,
the exile knows its place.
Decades pass,
an accent is adopted,
papers are signed,
still,
the exile walks alone.
Weary now, beaten-down,
by careless kindness,
and stifling generosity,
the perennial exile,
remains.
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