The Warehouse..

Where in the world the warehouses get strunk, As time walks, runs, cries and pleads with no pause, Small in size with layers of gyrus around, The stem with network system is bound, Secured in the vault of neurocranium pad, What a warehouse it is, with the forgotten goods, We remember that we sent the goods to it in the past, Neither stolen nor donated, but gone with no hint, Erased as if used the delete button, Removed as if sent to the rubbish bin, Evaporated as if heated with time oven, The warehouse is secured and guarded, the goods we have deposited are gone.