Such fragile creatures, humans.
Water bags with lumps inside.
Like crunchy rabbit stew
without the fur.
Big feet like hares, but
not sweet or meat enough to eat.
Their eyes leak when I catch one.
Owwful are the sounds they make
like a hyena, horse and mouse
rolled into one stringy body.
Why do they come looking for trolls
beneath bridges far and wide
a solitary existence without their persistence
manskins I’d never have tried.
We trolls live on vermin and bird kin
The delicacy of running shrieking hairless meals
makes me laugh but comes with a price to our ears.
Why write something about the eating habits of trolls?
Everyone has a bad day, when we may feel
like a troll, ogre or paranoid, myopic giant.
Maybe you feel like a blade of grass, lucky for you.
I don’t know, but grass stands, gets trampled, eaten,
mowed, smothered by blocks of ice, starts out green
turns yellow, then brown, gets one helluva sunburn,
tortured by dogs, eaten by sheep, goats, cows, horses…
You see where I’m going with this?
There is no triumph in being grass.
A tree might give more power and
variety of experience,
but the timeline is s l o w.
By the time you grow a branch
your mood has improved.
I should aspire to feel like a tree
However, a troll is a being with
extreme power living under a bridge.
Everyone knows it lives there, but
some idiot always has to check.
So, they get eaten. Every time.