Mushrooms

Some men eat mushrooms. 

Some mushrooms eat men.

Cold wind blows death across a lonely land,

Filling hollow hearts with echoes of the real,

The unreal and what might be.

Empty men pull weak cloth

Around their frail bodies

And huddle closer for warmth.

Harsh, skin-burning rain, rain of Man

Lashes upon poor dying, withered souls,

Blistering, burning, tearing where already

All is blistered, burnt and torn.

The once mighty shelters, pride of Men,

Melt, decay, rot and return

To the sickened soil.

Eyeless sockets look up,

Feeling again the cool,

Death-carrying, compassionate breezes.

Still they see the mushroom,

Might of Man.

Was there anything more beautiful,

Hopelessly lovely,

Than the mushroom cloud,

The great reaper,

The bringer of peace to the soul?

What an odd countenance death wears,

What grandeur he takes upon himself

When he really tries.

Men must suffer much

To feed such great glory.

If you think about it, it is only fair.

Beauty and suffering, again they embrace,

Love, and produce that extraordinary child,

That mightiest of all, Death

Reaper, weeder of fetid and decaying souls.

Come beauty, come putrefaction,

Come purity, rise up!  Demand thy price.

Let us in these last, pathetic hours

Have beauty born of decay,

Ecstasy and agony co-mingled,

The mushroom, the sadness, the glory,

Mightiest, fairest and last

Symbol of Man.