'I feel the pain throughout my flesh, now that I have nothing left.'
Fabric, cold time;
inventory all here.
Lace memory, written line;
relics. I fear
all, but nil stolen,
lost in dry tears,
my mind loosing control and
the fetid time nears.
shiver poor beast,
pain oft' times real.
all left in my pockets:
a run-dry, burned quill.
Rowan Parkinson
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/empty-pockets-3/
