A Bad Poem About Nothing Much

As March dragged itself along on its sodden belly,
The pricks and pains were first brushed off as weakness,
The psychosomatic results of imagined trauma. Grit your teeth and bear it. It could be much worse.
Rain pounded at the earth, though,
And in the chill weather the mud mixed itself into cement to suction at the wrists.

Aches set in; the pangs of previously ignored injuries returned;
Diseases revealed themselves and with them the anxieties they'd been guarding,
Like dragons with heaps of treasure usually enfolded and protected in leathery wings
But now sparkling clear in the light of the spring sun, covered in mud.

And yet we kept on, the sucking noises turning our stomachs at each forward movement, Crawling through the muck just to get to April.
The creeping pain was increasing, though, and looking down,
There it was, the razor wire hidden in the puddles.
We'd been eviscerating ourselves all along;
the stress and muffled joint pain had been only warning signs of bleeding out.
Now we look back, and there are our guts all spread out behind us like bloody slug trails.
How unappealing.

But here we are at April, and the nadir of mud-puddle infections is behind us,
Somewhere in our small intestines.
We're free now.
No organs to weigh us down and just that spring sunlight to fill us up.
We may not be better or faster or stronger or tougher,
But at least it's warmer now.