Riding past the place you used to live
Seems useless, and destructive of my soul.
I thought the memory of you might give
A little comfort, but instead it stole
The last remaining vestiges of peace.
I cannot think or speak, except of you,
And such obsession cannot bring release.
I know no easy method thereunto,
Which by some incantation, chant, or spell
Might free me from the pain that I have nursed
In my own foolishness. I might as well
Pray for a desert rainstorm. I have cursed
And screamed, and come to nothing. So I sit
Here by an old door, and I weep at it.
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