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Pickle Pumpkins

It’s October again
And I wonder,
With all the craze,
Why don’t we
Pickle pumpkins?

Who decided,
Some time,
At the turn of
Whatever century,

It was a good idea
To pickle anything?

“We played a dirge for you
But you didn’t weep.
We played a song for you
But you didn’t dance.”

“We gave you a pickle,
But you made a sour face.”

Some kids just don’t LIKE pickles.
And some just do.

But for most of us
It grows on us
Over time.

Octobers were like that
For me.

After years of monotony,
I grew to love
The sudden change.

After experiences
Of change and hardship,
The melancholy
And beauty
Of a colorful dying.

To answer the prophet,
The dirge eventually
DOES make us weep:

Because we all lose
The golden key
At some point.

And though some of us
Can’t dance,

Given time,
We all envy
Or understand
The necessity,

The preservation
Of THAT type of joy.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Editing stage: 


you start off funny and amusing but quickly become serious and in the end hit us with the raw truth as I see it. No suggestions or corrections are needed nice bit of writing

glad you liked it, shadowdancer!

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