Solitary Confinement Poem by Christopher's Dead

The sidewalk, the street corner,
The back alley, the bus stop,
What do all these things have in common?

Streetlights flood the inner sanctum of a soul
The ground soaked where rain water washes away dreams
And the floods resurface suppressed memories
Self-reflections reflect subconscious prerequisites
Wet reflections in cigarette butt filled chasms
Reflect distortion reflecting those of subconscious
Looking at the pavement, cracks appear the same
Never questioning why we keep walking in circles
Air cold but addicting caused by addiction to pain
Breath jets of a dysfunctional motoring steam
Frozen over sweat drips like the obligated tears
And hands begging warmth from the pocket of innocence
Each step is deafened in a manufactured silence
Lonely at night when our minds are trapped
In this indifferent proponent of solitary confinement

The sidewalk, the street corner,
The back alley, the bus stop,
What do all these things have in common?
They always seem crueler
When you die there alone.