To Pickle.

Regarding promises, now 
inoperative
Or shared dreams flouted
Via fool me follies
The young and dumb
being that rule of thumb
because
What’s nefarious is reserved
for the weathered and withered
Wise

Why?
You tell me

Maybe?

We relish seasoning
The zest of our suffering
In salting the earth
With the piquancy of
our derelictions


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