frog by name of Soon Dead.
he fresh,
green,
soft and slime,
inclined to trust,
blunt of mind.
Greets with nod,
my violence stirs.
I coat my words to mask the urge.
I ask Soon Dead,
simply this:
"grant weary legs a humble gift;
please cross this stream,
while you drift,
may I hitch a hikers lift?"
He resists at first,
trembles,
shuffles,
grumbles he knows I bring nothing but trouble.
I bow my head,
feign offense.
My expression is coy,
I offer soon dead,
ice cool logic he cannot deny,
"think-
Why would I strike and cause both our demise?"
I see his cogs turn,
he comes round to my thinking.
I mount his back as my tic erupts,
twitching.
He enters the stream.
Ripples dance 'round our voyage.
As we glide 'cross I wonder,
my ego ponders-
Maybe I'll make it,
the other side in sight.
I can change these spots,
turn 'round my life!
But I can not deceive
my essence, I am-
slave to rage senseless,
I must bear consequences.
Soon Dead's life on a string-
His lungs and soul,
scream mighty in pain,
and make thunder take note.
A passing bird,
snapped out of it's dream,
looked down saw violent red trickle down green.
My sting buried deep-
Soon Dead's plight,
haunted the bird for the rest of it's life.
A fool betrayed,
my ambivalent mood.
You say how could I do this?
but I did not choose,
to be of this nature,
equipped with such tools.
seeded destruction
roots deep in soul
My life, my victim, bound by our roles.
I met him by the stream's edge.
The frog and I, paint the stream red.
