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A poem for you...

I wrote this today because apparently I'm at the "poetry is falling out of me" stage of depression. Enjoy. Or not. Whatever. I'm not going to say it's good, but it exists now, and it didn't this morning.

Decomposers

Who are we? –––The fungal few,
Those of us
Who press our mouths into the earth
And drink deeply of its dying.

Spotted, like a mushroom cap.
But Death is still Death,
Even in a pretty hat.

The few that came, and stayed.
What stay we for, then?
We that came,
And saw,
And stretched ourselves into the soil below,
Trying to touch something living.

Ours is not the morning
Or the day.
Ours is creeping evening,
Stars awash in inky sludge,
Coldness,
And decay.
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shoes

October 2011

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