Dark Fear - Poetry

 

If one sits still long enough

Mushrooms will grow on their skin like edible tattoos.

Fungi of every colour, size, and smell

sprouting in response to a thought, untouched dreams, and wishes gone away.

Eating your own strengthens the resolve;

not waste, taken and absorbed back into the collective.

Cultivated and naked bodies

create enough for the world, assisted in dark rooms, 

stored away from the sun.

Thinly sliced and savoured during parties of ill repute:

women dressed in ebon coloured dresses,

eyes distorted by mysterious kohl.

The men stand to the side, watching like naive children;

their purpose is not yet given to them.

Samples of everyone lay about within an atmosphere

of an opium den - Gothic tragedy creating such sexual frustrations

and the removal of limitations.

Those who linger beyond the normal, those who savour

and taste such fungal pleasures

mingled with blood drawn from their own veins,

smile as only they can.

Their bright violet eyes, their mouths painted with crushed blueberries,

make such dreams as to be carried on silver platters.

I was born in such a place, naked and pale, ready to sample myself.

My own fungal creations, covered in crushed faerie wings and first kisses. 

Artists, writers, thinkers beyond the realm populate these rooms - 

rooms that house the flesh mushrooms.

They made their choice to flee from the sun

and linger in their musty basements.

They are the Lords and Ladies of Darkness, rulers

in a world that has yet to experience Fear. 

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Mortals Market Tea Blend - as made for The Order of the Good Death.