THE POCKET:

I´m as empty as the pocket of a sad lonely man,

With a hole in the seam where the last coin ran,

Gone with my love, my worldly riches have flown,

No debit, credit, cheque-book & no begged for loan.

As empty as a Monday pocket of the vagabond´s life,

Leaving nothing but the cold of a bloody bladed knife,

When you left me, my pocketful went & left with you,

Leaving me sadly, empty, & very melancholically blue.

As empty as the month end pocket turned inside-out,

Turning my silent prayer into unforgiving loud shout,

As empty as the dead pockets & of their living in pain,

Starved of love as the desert, starved of its sweet rain.

I´m the pocket, as empty as the bowl of the hungry child,

 Void of the heart, as the howl of the empty wind so wild,

 Pockets that house my old heart & my poor aching soul,

 Now so very empty & are just full of airy, sad, empty holes.

Stitch by painful stitch, my empty pockets I shall slowly sew,

So that no golden coined love shall be able to outward flow,

Love there within the depths, never able to escape with stealth,

And my pockets shall be filled & full to overflowing rich wealth.