Pickled Hell

for some and against others

I do not speak these poems for you
Who tear down to enlarge yourselves
But for those few whose hearts are still true
Not pickled up in jars on shelves
Where bottled-up in brine they will not grow
I speak from a place where these dare not go

No! I speak these poems for you who
Can feel your heartbeat in your breast
Your eyes are open your mind is too
To you my best I give my best
And let those who only pick apart dwell
Preserved picked-apart in their pickled hell

+Steven Curtis Lance



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