Vines crawling into the notches,
and holes in the ivory.
Intertwined through rotting flesh.
Spreading like a disease,
cleansing with death.
The fungi sprouting through
the moist remains of
what could have been.
Maybe when my chest is coated in verdure, maybe when my lungs are lined with moss, when my skulls has life again,
but not my own,
maybe I will find peace.
Maybe the forest will understand.
Vines will replace my veins with
their sinewy roots.
The trees will listen to my heart
and hear my soul.
I’ll tell the forest things
I’ve never told before.
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 9:34 PM UTC
Vines crawling into the notches,
and holes in the ivory.
Intertwined through rotting flesh.
Spreading like a disease,
cleansing with death.
The fungi sprouting through
the moist remains of
what could have been.
Maybe when my chest is coated in verdure, maybe when my lungs are lined with moss, when my skulls has life again,
but not my own,
maybe I will find peace.
Maybe the forest will understand.
Vines will replace my veins with
their sinewy roots.
The trees will listen to my heart
and hear my soul.
I’ll tell the forest things
I’ve never told before.
Request permission to use this poem