A wee poem (sort of) Ashes and Dirt I look upon my roof and knock My room so small, cushioned, yet locked They hear not my fevered … Share this:Click to email a link to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on Tumblr (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)