Some Know

Poised above the word
to spread its ink
upon the page - I wait.

And nothing comes,
but a wrenching saddness
that the earth is rendered
too hot for civility
and kindness.

Blubber barreled as
life unfurls on the
tragic waves for man and
whale.

Utterance(s) like water
trickles over the
parched and heated
red shale rocks -

no
more.

And, the tadpole is
rendered dead,

sticking to what
had once been greenery
and sustenance for
it to nurse upon.

What sharp and heinous tilt
will hearts begin to take
as solid, baked earth ravines
yield nothing damp for
lushing undergrowth or fern.

And, all of them -
each their every - could
needs sense the arrival of the
departure.

But,
they
would not.

They chose themselves
that they would not bespeak
THE WORDS of telling their
demise or croak the ancient
fears they knew brewing
in the cauldons of their soul.

It had become
too hot; too warm
for grace and mercy to be
a thing of ease.  Harshness
now they had and would still be -

freedom lost for outcomes
once desired.

They say frogs
do not know the pot
is set to boil; if the
boil is set upon slowly
from the cold unto a roll.

I sense
that
some

must

know.