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.