It’s the cold light of morning; Sleeping cities beneath a icy blue sun; Fading night disturbed with occasional twitches As alley-dwellers toss and turn. My suburbia; a tragic kind of town Hard-working parents with heads in sand Rest as their children sing and swing In black shrouded parks; rivers of cider flowing. Circular Walk; a heart beats in glass; Pounding the pool of dreg liqueur. I tore it out last night, hoping, praying; To try and bring order to my world. Too long had twisted concepts thrived In thoughts, like electric shocks; Drilling through my days in a hundred ways: Constant reminders of approaching disaster. It was a chaos I had never known; The halls of my mind a living asylum, Populated by maniacal jokers and Tourette-afflicted sorrow junkies, screaming... I had months to ponder a divine creation: The self-pity my mind produced so freely. In many ways, I supposed Circular Walk apt: The final resting place of my own life’s circle.