[PancakeBrah]

Salt.

Like similac, a statuette colored of mildew on ash,
opaque, but on sunny days it's like seeing through glass,
a still life silhouette with borderlines thin as your lash
the same hue that's cast after the kindling's scratched,
on a Dead Sea's shore, an ode to the wicked, the crass,
the scorned. Visible across the fjord as a witness to wrath,
now garden borne, slave to the minutes that pass,
the waves that'd crash, and the thunder's tinnitus claps.
Martyr to those of a similar path. A model, explorer.
The Godless emoji, fraught with modern impatience;
"What with Lot walking so slowly..." God isn't patient.
Turncoat curiosity, "Just one more look at Sodom, Gomorrah."
And then, the whiff of iodized salt. The simplest twist.
There's no parable. No lesson learned, presented as gift.
Just another stupid bitch, another poem, and someone who didn't exist.