Like mushrooms, we are connected.
It is hard to see where one fungus stops.
And the next one starts.
The complex network of mycelium
Ties us all together at the root.
We grow from the mossy ground,
Unsure if we are a new being
Or just a new extension of the whole.
Regardless, we are each unique.
Distinguishable.
We stand alone as ourselves,
But we grow together as one.
Are we a family?
Or are we different organs of one organism,
Working in tandem, doing our part?
I suppose all these descriptions can coexist together.
We do work together, sharing resources,
Distributing based on need, not want.
We are a family of mushrooms.
Our spores share the same DNA
As they float through the air.
We are one with each other,
But we are also our own selves.

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.

tickle my roots
so i giggle and
jiggle my lymph.
dandelions thrive in crust
but i'm a prairie nymph.
my feet need
fluffy stuff like peat.
my leafs need
complete fairy rings
to hum the drumbeat
as the prairie sings.

how fortunate to meet
mycelium, come eat
where i sleep:
in Creatures' compost
replete with giggling
wigglers underneath
the brown and sticky
sticks betwixt
the Sun-fed sedges
on the edges
of the Forest.