No longer of use,
The static colliding,
The past in recluse
In the attic, residing
Colors rot in the dust
Pictures die in the silence,
As corpses make fust
And complain under pileus.
The mycelium harvest,
In boredom, they thrive.
And much like the artist
Through flesh, their roots rive.
A place where ghosts and ghoul like to screech,
A place where even the flies couldn’t reach.
Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 11:15 AM UTC
No longer of use,
The static colliding,
The past in recluse
In the attic, residing
Colors rot in the dust
Pictures die in the silence,
As corpses make fust
And complain under pileus.
The mycelium harvest,
In boredom, they thrive.
And much like the artist
Through flesh, their roots rive.
A place where ghosts and ghoul like to screech,
A place where even the flies couldn’t reach.
