Pickled Crow – July 26, 2019


gazing out at you

Void of everything

I once knew.

A pickle jar,


Tongue’s grit

Rough and sore.


Don’t spoil

Your sour mood,

For me.

Or anyone.

But lick your lips,

And twist tight,

What you might.

Until the seal stops,

And your wounds have healed.


Words retracted,

Or withheld.

Kept from flight

An invisible sting,

Rich with plight.

I need to hear

All the spew.


Your rancid drool,

A refreshing stench.

Stirs an aching soul.


A chapeau


Secrets spilled.


Into a heart

With open arms,

Yet a narrow regard

For the sour tongue

That hangs

So low.

When you finally do

Decide to crow.

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