People are pot frogs
smoking themselves into
lawn yard.

Buried in dark,
sipping moonshine as
the moon shines in
dim lights,

where grim sprites are in
battle of nature to nurture their
black hearts into the
black arts of
filling the lightwells with the
beast who dwells and
grows in the shadows
that overflows our light meadows,

that rings our bells and quells
our seeking spirit with rivers that
poisons our veins,

steals our left brains with a
running commentary
stinking of sulfur and ash,
as our soul fur suffers naked,
half-baked in the pot with the
frog, noticing no thing as
his veins pop and
the bells stop.

Bursting through death,
boiled to a stop,
skinned alive,
the frog legs up and
flies through skies.

No longer bewitched, but
bewinged he joins the clouds
and rains down the pond, to
radiate his story to the poles,

so that they can regrow righteously
as light princes in a world of
pot frogs.