Home

I must look stupid,
seventy sum years short of dementia.
I see this town I've grown to hate and love majority of my life,
but as I look at these buildings and streets that are engraved in my memory,
it quickly dawns on me that this is so suddenly foreign.
Home is no longer home.

I close my eyes and bury my face of mixed emotions deep in to these palms so used to holding a paint brush,

and I think of where I have been and done,
and maybe,
just maybe,
I will be there again some other day.