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Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Children of Decay


Overnight they emerge
Ghostly grey presence
belying the morning shine
Flat headed phantoms
balanced on thin, stringy stems
Children of decay
birthed of death
No fairy picnics under these
skeletal umbrellas
Prodders of rot
Auguries of degeneration
spreading earthy perfume
among the sweet flowers
They stand
ashen tombstones
marking time
Reminders of mortality
always reminding.


submitted (late again) for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Flash Fiction 55

2 comments:

grapeling said...

i'm continually fascinated by mushrooms. maybe it stems (no pun intended) from learning, as a high schooler, that magic shrooms were grown in cow patties. ~

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Cool write! I love "no fairy picnics under these skeletal umbrellas"......