Wonderfully Willoughby

A Poem by Dawn

My ill-advised stopple
a forceful nod to steam-punk.
The antiquated cylinder
is glazed with promise,
an organ collector's dream.

Is my oxidized wingnut
fully-functional?
Defective, I send sweet pickles
to an early grave-
in the bowels of my limestone and ash frame.

Carbon monoxide is a leaking death,
and my emotions are of a similar sort.
Words and life experiences duel oxygen and duality.
Bubbling spores
flaunt their lecherous eyes
spoiling my liquidus curve.

Fruit preserves? Vegetable stew?
Whatever the filling,
bacteria grapples for supremacy.
Doctors have thrilled at my innards!
Strange fruits are exposed under glass.
My pickles taste a little bitter,
a little green before and after.

Still a sweetness coats
the dusty layer of hours passing
despite the need for self--err food preservation.
Tilt me and drink my insides dry.
You'll wince and finish them off,
or drink up and
discover an "interesting" after taste.

My hearts of palm are to die for..
literally or figuratively.
That of course
is the rhetorical question.

© 2017 Dawn

Author's Note

Prompt: me being a jar.. what am I filled with?

background details: The 1858 Willoughby mason jar had a wingnut that was faulty by design. Because the jar and seal mechanism was a dastardly and fairly ill-functioning combination, many of the jars were tossed. Now they are a mason jar enthusiast's prized possession because of their rarity. Function doesn't always equate to value apparently. Hope you enjoy!