(A couplet poem)
A faded piece of silk,
With a color which is pink.
At the top of the table,
Serves as it's mantle.
At the side of this room,
I saw a girl that blooms.
Handling a musty bread,
That tastes like unsavory thread.
This is poverty.
Yes, technically.
A place which nothing exists.
Literally, and none will feel bliss.