A silent trip through old town,
A place I’ve been many times before,
The familiar sight of Darcelle’s,
And CC Slaughter’s hallowed doors,
Sights expected, my mind seeking,
An inward calm, the air crisp and leaves dancing,
The flux of the city ringing slightly out and up and over,
The blur of the moment, where I move,
My Mouth Silent,
Seeking knowledge in the quiet,
Battered back by years of anger,
Quietly, Steadily, Oscillating through the air,
From the bricks of faded buildings,
With their social stamp, “Hotel”,
But by definition, my definition,
A broken rest of exponential distress,
An ebb and flow of such disorder,
Leading to my steps in circles.

Flicker.
And then the call comes,
Or the rain falls,
Or the snow pelts the chirps and songs,
The voices muted, my feet bruised,
The flickering neon’s buzzing blues,
My eyes rise, my mouth shuts,
The sting rises from my gut,
And I am alive, again present,
And I walk to find my home…

Stepping in circles.

-Cameron Barry, "Circles"