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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