We Are Fungi

In the silt and from the silt. Weave up to wormy spark of soil, the grit of growth, delicious wastes pass through bedrock, magma, rain. Air’s tango of beast and tree. Wet report to desert dry. Going through us from and back in to all. Nowhere an escape. Filter, process, be.

Filter. Process. Be, in cycles of both, the rhythmic becoming of it all. Rhythm in waves, the might of breath, the forest age of leaf, the ululation of seas, the rancour of steel, the bust and boom of seed. Filter, process, be. Fungi are the way, always in all states; awake and asleep, growing and decaying, rising and falling as life’s lungs. All goes through all.

Dust of motes of light to pulse of rage as fires surge from star to chest to barbaric yawp. Dust of motes of light as wave, embrace to warmth that blooms as arms encircle their embrace. Ashes igniting flames. Change to change. Poison broken down to use and use, new poison’s chain, magic too slippery to restrain, magic our trickery can but sustain, healed by each cut, strengthened by blows, nourished by all poisons read to our eye’s evolving mind. All unknowing known.

From your arms my arms grow. While radiating from every hurt cold the hot wave that carries us on.