Bufo Boreas

Wretched
prince-to-be,
the words you curse
in private
pimple your
future's complexion.

Your good sense:
gone; your goodness
wasted; your good
decisions, devastated.

Sucking the poison
from every cut,
only to swallow
every drop.

Dramatic.
Derelict.

Demonic.

Ribbeting
nasty gutterals.

Guillotine
rematerialized
from spit, slurring
and gnashing of gums.

Drumming
its finger-blades.

Skin shrivels up
trying every method
of escape.

What can you do,
if live you really must?