Singing to the Frog Pool

stick leg standing,
crawl venture
extreme sound,
waiting in the bushes,
behind the factory,
down in the valley.

clouds of gloom
and despondent etchings,
wither fingers
of dusty dreams,
splayed across a broken field of joy,
burned in the furnace of night.

when the rain came,
and we hid under the bridge,
away from spy cams and smoke detectors,
away from passion patrols and surface police,
lost in the murky waters.

slithered fronds of charm,
gasping in slander and ethics,
under the stem of a bleeding tulip,
under the roots of a sacred oak,
under the tendrils of decay,
that twist around
our weeping limbs,
under the hand of laughter.

And I crouched in the corner
with my silver spoon,
hiding.