The sleep turns, twists..
faces burn, emerge into relief, ..yet relief itself still yearns
to break the tide of years of grief..
Here is it, now.. but how it always was?
Lonely streets repeat.. and repeat.. and repeat.
A winding, silent trace of deceit?
Snaking cul-de-sacs, walls and alleys of thought, trapped..
Yet turning back on ones' self
like a serpent consuming it's own tail.
Replete, coiled, confused..
But returned. Somehow returned.
by Paul Sinclair