Left to Marinate

In the back of the fridge, something swells,

a jar gone neglected, lids loose with fate.

Pickles or dreams, in their soury spells,

waiting for moments that shift and create.

The smell hits like memories that cling like a vine,

overripe and pungent, they wrestle with time.

Each glance at the jar tells me, this was once fine,

yet now it ferments into lessons and rhyme.

What sits in the dark isn’t just brine and glass,

but stories unclaimed that were left in the shade.

Something left too long can begin to amass,

a slow change of flavor in moments delayed.