The streets here,
are like insect trails,
carved at mindless random
through a distracted earth;
the new converging with old,
only a distant, unconscious hint
of another part of life.

The houses here are mostly large,
 empty buildings with no lights.

If the relentless enemy of regret
lurks behind these boarded up doors,
it may flee through the broken glass;
memories let loose by a reckless hand,
shelters that offer no comfort,
but that cannot be torn down.

It is plain what lines the roadsides here,
but what lies at the edge of town?