Between unreproof and undesire
is big brown frog with broken lyre,
it strums its harp with twisted glee,
and nods and smirks and points at me.
I sit with her and hold her hand
she does not smile, nor reprimand,
she waits and holds her crinkled breath,
as I do, as you do, until pounced-death.
Time's wing�d chariot hurries near,
yet sit we here, yet do we peer
into our hearts to see where we
would like to sit, would like to be.
Big brown frog with broken lyre
knows all this, prepares our pyre,
knows the spinning of the wheel,
knows we know not what we feel.