Broke, a ditty

When money’s all gone, the soul’s set free
To live, to breathe, to be;
When pockets are empty, all’s that pure emerges,
From the shadows of the dark, dank security of mammon;

When you can’t buy a thing, there’s now space to think,
To ponder and question, to dare to consider,
That ruin after all may be cataclysmic in nature,
Leaving you bereft of all sense of stature

I fancy myself as a poet. Normally, only in the throes of unbridled romance does the bard in me spring to life. However, sometimes, inspiration comes unexpectedly, from an empty wallet.