I Like Pickles

The sonnet is a poem that conquers all

And reverence I heap upon this form

With fourteen lines in rhyme and meter's thrall

The beauties of it rise above the norm

Yet this poem's subjects always seem so grim

About the dark and shadows, peace and love

My love for sonnets teeters on the rim

And crashes after falling from above

But hark! Complaining mine is at an end

For pickles in a sonnet sound just right

The marinated stuff a hand can lend

And help me when the grim and silly fight

Thus pickles salty are my only hope

Of them I write, and maybe I can cope.

Nothing lasts forever; all things end. This applies to Nothing as well: of course there was a Nothing before our Something, and someday our Something will go back to Nothing.

In the Nothing before Something, there was something, despite the strict laws of Nothing that state there must be nothing even though rules are something. Nothing was complicated back then.

There was a word, and it was hope.

In reality, the word was pickles, but because no one seems to understand that pickles are indeed hope, they changed it to hope when they wrote the story of the universe. Remember, though, that pickles mean hope, and where pickles are, there is hope also. 

And because Nothing has rules that supposedly mean nothing and are nonexistent, the pickle was given life.

I am alone in the universe, the pickle yelled, minuscule in the silence and nothingness of Nothing. It was a mere speck of dust. But again, because we will never know or understand the rules of Nothing, it existed in a place where Nothing and nothing existed, and it survived, marinating in the absence of objects alone.

I am alone in the universe.

Nothing blew up.