At 27, I catch glimpses
of my reflection, the edges blurred.
What I thought was an identify
is really a funerary pall.
You sought Mercy Street
on Beacon Hill.
I walked the star-lit night
until I stumbled against a street sign
which read: “Dead End.”
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 2:21 PM UTC
At 27, I catch glimpses
of my reflection, the edges blurred.
What I thought was an identify
is really a funerary pall.
You sought Mercy Street
on Beacon Hill.
I walked the star-lit night
until I stumbled against a street sign
which read: “Dead End.”
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