In a forest of rotting wood, the sick are king
3.35 am. The lit flare of birdsong
guides you through a room
darker than a black hole.
On second thoughts, perhaps
it is a black hole and you tripped
headfirst into it, emerging
in a forest of rotting wood
mirroring your stomach
these last few months,
with only the flies and mycelia
there to guide you, and help
answer not the how, but the why.
- © Christian Ward 2023
Christian Ward is a UK-based writer who has recently appeared in Open Minds Quarterly, Double Speak, Obsessed with Pipework, Primeval Monster, Tipton Poetry Journal, Amazine and Wild Greens.
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