Twisted, I cross my heart,
hope to die, bite into gourmet pretzel gone stale.
God, proprietor of this earth, I hear you yell, “Sell. Sell. Sell.”
At first softened then crusted by life’s rising degrees,
I’ve been salted with seasons of experience,
dipped in chocolate shame.

Hungry family within
devours what life’s torturous press has left behind.
Eaten from the inside out by worms, so such a worm am I.
Nothing can fill gaping holes, nor straighten one so
distorted and misshapen. Perhaps the perfect
pretzels are to blame.