Poets Pickle

I’m pickling poetry to be preserved perfectly.
The present presant of passion is passionately pressed in palms and presented in arms.
Our painfully pessimistic promises are passed patiently in prohibited possibility and
persuaded by your English charms.
Pens poach preordained problems like peaches, privately plundered in qualms
Preached in alarm, and i’ll be darned! plumby poetry plumbed and piped
and read in psalms on the nights balm