• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 12
Image by


The nascent spores inside my head
Quickened with each word I read
I cultivated carefully
Until they matched each word he said

I thought he'd like my thigh-high boots
He whispered of forbidden fruits
And each obscene soliloquy
Penetrated deeper roots

Despite his boasts like Galahad's
Of gallantry beyond the lads
I ended up on bended knee
and elbow, grateful for those pads

An overgrowth of toxic mould
A cultured fear of growing old
Replicated wantonly
On all the fertile lies we told

And though I made the bed, it's true
My idle hands need work to do
I write pathetic poetry
And cast my spores for someone new