...The story of a girl in London, England


Sonnet 23


If all my lives were ever once to meet—

The now of this, the that-ness of ago—

In some forlorn, forgotten, rainy street,

They wouldn’t know each other, who I’ve known.

The place where once I was, and where I am,

Would stranger to each other be, than men

Who never met, though I must say I can

Admit with truth that I have lived in them.

With time our character, it shifts and grows,

To be what we allow it, and with time

The person that we are could never know

The person who we’ve been—And I don’t mind.

Perhaps the sadder state of things would be

If older selves found not a change in me.

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