half-blinded by tired street lights,
I step along the cold cement beside
the dark road, seemingly never-ending.
here— silhouettes of shifting leaves,
surrounding branches and tiny
distant mountain tops are
revealed by periwinkle sky.
the breeze chills my skin.
this melancholic little world has
never been so irreparable.
I search for the end,
passing through shadowy apparitions
of things that came before.
Illusions of my past selves reside
on this damaged street—untouchable.
to forget my purpose here
would be to become another
sorrowful ghastly figure.
a door appears at the end of the road,
against the line that separates cement
from the black, unshaped void.
I calm myself
and step into the
unwritten space of the
white doorway.
Hyacinth Lane 