Grown fat-headed on the rot
of the sick, stagnating morass
and expelling spores of such thought
when they grow to critical mass,
these mushroom-minded men thus sow
miasmas to confuse the earth,
expanding networks far below
to blight the healthy dayside turf.
Is it a daydream, or a seamless fault
that it should envelop the whole wide world,
reigning over us near, far, and gestalt—
sun, moon, clouds, space up from the ground unfurled?
It is not unlike the soul of a man,
the spheres of his essence more than his span.
Unable to conceal the hurricanes
they instead take down all the weathervanes.
A few “cross” words from the opposing side
and they act as if they’ve been crucified.
“I’m not in the mood, Chris,” his wife said
as she groaned and struggled in their bed.
Chris slowly roused from the dark of sleep,
but was pinned down, the knife buried deep.