Musings · Poetry

Where Is Mine?

I am not a nomad

That’s too fancy a word to describe me

It will be a dishonour to true nomads to call myself that

But still, I drift, homeless with a roof over my head

Questions of who I am and why I am pouring in at every waking moment

From here to there and then the next, I move, I slide, I drift

Nowhere, everywhere, anywhere

But really, where is mine?

©Ọrẹolúwa Matẹ̀milọ́lá 2022 All Rights Reserved

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