I’m an acrobat,
Amongst the arches,
Along your branches.
I’m airborne,
It just looks like I’m slipping through,
But trust me,
I will stay with you,
Sway with you,
If you don’t mind it.
Sorry about the bugs,
They seem to like me,
I’m a little scraggly,
Looking a bit worn.
I’ll keep you warm,
But not smothered,
You scratch my back,
I’ll keep yours covered.
The mushroom,
As it is known,
Is the tip of the fungal iceberg,
So to speak.
Beneath the fruiting body,
In the crux,
Is an interconnected,
Root and chute structure,
That undergirds,
The organism.
An unseen web,
Of white matter,
That provides a foundation.
A loose, scattered scaffold,
That aids the fungus in digestion.
In a superficially cerebral way,
Think of it like this:
The white matter,
In your brain,
Is a network,
Of axons,
That allows you to understand,
Various axioms,
And maxims,
And act on them.
You may not be aware of it,
Or scarcely know of such a thing,
But it’s presence is felt,
Nonetheless.
What stands today simply cannot stay-
And there is no way to delay, to hold at bay,
It will all sway, grey and flay,
Forests filled with life, are also forests of decay.
The oak that falls crushes what is underneath,
In a massive faltering apogee,
It opens up the canopy,
And gloriously atrophies.
We run the same race at different rates,
And have different faces, yet the same fate.
“The end is a conclusion,”
That seems to be a delusion,
The end is an illusion,
Or an allusion,
There is some confusion.
A shadow is present because of its absence,
Isn’t that inside-out?
Yet empty space is where one finds all existence,
We are always within without,
Nothing to write home about.
Who’s there?
Who cares?
We fit into these impressions,
Despite asking those questions.
Records get scratches,
Locks have latches,
All that matters is mass and volume,
You wouldn’t be there if there was no room,
And you wouldn’t be you if you were naught.
The File Pile 