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