Like a mystic, he lifted me by my flexing throat

And read my blood for signs of death.

Morse code against my neck told how I was to die.

I saw the slides with slivers of my spirit.

My lungs were pink and stained with stars.

Foreign and unwelcome, they shot through my flesh

Only losing fire in the water under my ribs.

Here they morph and feed and grow.


Now a parasitic fungal star contracting like a baby’s stomach:

When it’s hungry, it feeds.

When it’s not, it sleeps.

One day, as a glorious fungus,

These twisted tumors may coalesce

And burst from my sternum,

Eating me until I am only a puddle of juices and regret.


My slimy Pisces trepidation

And angry Aries stance

Failed to realize the cancerous parts of life.

I shied from my negligent god,

His meticulous angels, and clumsy unicorns.

But like a goat rising from the ocean, this world is wonderfully strange.


The mystics who have lived through time and witnessed humanity,

Have sang the historical commonality of fear.

Their many perspectives gave impression of plentiful lifetimes

And my heart was contented.

They hummed at the youth of Icarus.

They recounted the Indus Valley.

They spoke of my late cat.

As I listened to their pain, I felt as connected as the stars.


So, while I house these fungal fledglings,

I am as long-lived as humanity.

And I can once again take comfort in being human

From here on out.







This poem is about: 
Our world


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