There’s a frog in a pot and it’s going to hell but

It’s freezing out there and it’d rather not dwell on the

fumes of the flame that now heats it alive or

The bite of the wind or the nick of the knife that I’d

Hold to its neck after failing that life

I’d fought off the voices that sought to destroy the

warmth of the soup that the frog now calls home and

like Atlas I’d held up a tinfoil lid

upon it- rainwater from eons undid

soon, I hope, shall we both boil

The flavor of bodies turned liquid in soil

a flash, a whirr, then a dark hissing smoke

shall the scribes writing our stones wearily croak.