Paradoxical Amphibians

Their numbers grow bimonthly on Tuesday evenings,

Tiny beings of glimmering scales

Whose colours grow in prismatic rhythms under the Sun.

--

I don't hate the Overlord with passion and reverence-

He is the eternal source of spirals in this realm;

One who weakens the daemons that seasonally flood the psyche,

And leave unannounced with a subtle, self-satisfied smirk.

--

Resourcing herself in-between two time-sensitive bustles,

The young frog grows weary of the crowd.

Alternatively, she chooses her path,

One on which she indulges her misanthropic tendencies,

Resisting the drive to display intermittent naval-gazing.

--

Simultaneously over-constricted and stale,

the Frog retires from the Sun.

She writhes with unsettled embarrassment

And cries out for help.

Anarchy and the reverberations of the sun

Simply cannot be contrived in single amphibian's body.