Living with no pockets

My memories lie in a pile

Wandering with no purpose

I've ignored them for a while

Sitting in the dark now

Scribbling insubstantial things

I yearn for the completion

Which knowledge often brings

There is no going back though

No way to find the lost

I don't possess what drudging through

That coveted pile would cost

Still my thoughts flock to that horde

As soon as they've been had

Deserting the remnants that wander emptily

Lost. and little less than mad