My sword all the way to the hilt
heavy as insomniac eyelids
frogs burrowing out of red mud fields
the blade rust red
and fleeing amphibians leaking blood
my rebar staff my knuckles barked
curse of psoriasis the yellow and brown
scales flecked with my blood and dirt
frog blood and their shrill cries
I’m barely thirty and they lived
more than eighteen months
imprisoned in the mud and what dreams
so long asleep the frogs entranced
become as moths fluttering
the size of grizzly paws
free of the mud and their own innate slime
dry and powdery in the cool wind
they rise free beyond the reach
of their traditional predators
instead they wake to an irate asshole
beating down their prison walls
revenging himself on the helpless
ruining their muscular thighs
bulbous eyes taking everything from them
because they can’t fight back or fly

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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