Mike Pearson's Adventures on a Pale Blue Dot

Poison Toads In the darkened swamp of human souls, Where twisted roots and shadows play, Lurk the poison toads of misery, Beneath the guise of night and day. Their eyes, like coals of bitter fire, Gleam with envy, spite, and greed, Spewing venom, thick as mire, From their mouths where lies breed. Oh, the poison toads, in their royal robes, Crowns of nettles, thrones of stone, They croak commands and issue probes, With voices like a grinding drone. “Bow to me,” they hiss and sneer, “Bend your will, your thoughts, your spine,” In their swamp, there’s naught but fear, Where freedom’s light can never shine. They trample joy beneath their feet, With warty hands and grasping claws, Delight in making others weep, Feeding on the pain they cause. Each toad, a master of deceit, Their words a poisoned lullaby, Draining hope with every beat, As dreams beneath their gaze do die. In the mire of their making, They sit on thrones of mud and bone, Each croak a heart that’s breaking, Each touch a chill ...