The Frog

We are marching toward
a conclusion, crowds teeter on
the brink, the equivocal grunts
of preachers, prophets and fools
turning us into mush,

You are being shaped by someone else,
from noxious clay with shriveled stones
for eyes, vestigial, yet marked with
bright illusions, painted in colors
inured,

A tactile smile remains
to blind hands reaching out
seeking comfort, deaf to the blissful
laughter and heavy tables, privy
to gluttonous feasts and unforgiving bodies
practicing the religion of perfidy,

The jungles frost over,
snow breathes its way into our lungs,
A little girl offers her hand,
if you take it, they will set you free,
but we watch her leave,
the insects wait and the vultures descend,
there is a voice but we can't make it out
calling from somewhere between history,
like the frog who has run out of lily pads,
there is no path left before us,
He tightens his muscles and leaps
into nothingness,
the water splashes around us,
the parting of red seas,
ripples echo like miniature earthquakes,
and then--
and then--
nothing is calm.