Pickled Crow – July 26, 2019

Blankly,

gazing out at you

Void of everything

I once knew.

A pickle jar,

Emptied.

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

Tipped,

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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