I love the macabre mushroom sprouting from dead trees



~Found an old poem I wrote~

The shroom sat waiting, the rain was yet to come

The shroom was a lonely heart, loved with trepidation

The rain, generous, pouring love over all.

The shroom could not understand why it craved the rain,

But it did, with all its fiber, and all was okay with the rain around

The rain cared about the shroom, as it cared about the fern, as it cared about the grass

But the rain loved the ground the most, being one with the ground was the only purpose.

The shroom wished it craved other thngs, the rain would never be its own- the rain was universal, coming when it felt like

Maybe all good are so because they belong to the world, and no one in it.


18 MARCH 2008



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