Old Toads

The old toads lay around dying; toxins seeping from their bones, oozing and pulsing. Flies caught in their throats, gasping and wheezing. Gagging on old words and useless ideas. Ears plugged they croak with wide, open throats. It is deafening and meaningless.

Tadpoles become frogs, bouncing and screaming. Full of arms and legs, hopes and dreams, words and ideas. Ready to shake their tails and leap into a new world; unaware of the impending crush. Scrape the mess off the sidewalk; the disgusting remnants of guts and intestines. Life. Non-life. We are all dead or busy living to die.

I am an old toad; bloated and fat with ideas. I don’t want to keep swallowing them until they are rotten or stale. I want to become lean and purge the words tearing at my throat. No one in particular may care what I have to say, but the thoughts and ideas are beating at my brain. The only way to find peace is to let them out.

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