I. Oh, Amelyn.

Blue,
the riveting, suited toad who jumped through  
hoops and hopelessness
to find you;  
you kneeling in the dusk-covered wasteland  
with naught but washed-up doubt and creative emptiness,
no one could imagine
until they lived in your mind
for a time.  
He, with fearless, strategic eyes, saw the Gothic tower
building a cage upon your mind
as he sat beside you,  
picked apart a lily pad and hiccuped.  
One hiccup echoed for what seemed a year across  
wetness, across the aqua blue.  
After, when toad had grown a beard
and you were filled will ill-intent
at a writer's block that had lasted a lifetime,
you sat up
and, with scalpel in your hand, you cut  
into his chest, dissected his heart.  
As if in school, twenty years before,  
black ran from those wicked eyes; repenting.
'Are you listening, Amelyn? I do hate it when you daydream.
You must cut here.'
How strange for a toad to hiccup.