Childhood memories never quite leave you...

I'm speaking a vertical language.
I'm building a tower
While I walk in a line that is anything but horizontal.
Through these streets which wind and curl
Like the physical being of a pocket-watch internal,
Except timeless.
Through a town in denial,
Wearing t he clothes of a city;
Childish games of make- believe.
But we all know each other,
And our sisters,
Street peddlars know you so well they've "Just the right thing!",
And the mad woman down the street screams at the top of her lungs
Pouring blame on anyone who walks by her in similar ignorance
And empty stares.
Familiarity breeds contempt.
The smell of pancakes and scraped knees from bicycles lingers in my nostrils
Like the grease from my chain on my bloodstained jeans.
I'm building a tower with words vertical.
A way out through the up,
Till the buildings resemble blades,
Of grasses in meadows leaving cuts on my heels;
Marks eternal