Pickled Thoughts
Truth be told I knew what it was
When it was pushed to the back of “that” draw
That place where cucumbers of thought turn to mush
They once held value, that thought, that cucumber
Yet somehow slipped from the consciousness of concern
There will be no “oh, poor baby” recollections
No prodigal thought reunions
No recognition of what they might have become
Only an urgent desire to deny the fetid stench of failure
No candles will be lit, no incense filtered into the air
For they were what they were
Are what they are
Will never be …Again
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