Pickled.

When I see the pickled stem of my own wilted soul, I clamour,

But watch the marrow flow through my fingers.

In ecstatic operas of sadness, I realise the fortune that it is to feel,

To enrich tomorrows soil with misfortune.

As steam rises from the estuary, so crops grow from the dung;

 And righteous in life and optimism, these voyagers from the meal of waste.

Such visions of height and vigour must always find their foundation

On tombstones and inequity.

Martyrs to despair and gardeners to opportunity.