TOWNS
- May 29
- 1 min read
By Zofia Koren
Here, in the town that life forgot,
Beware, O, dreamers of this place,
— where lovers, weavers go to rot.
Here, puddles pool in hollow heads,
Stillborn of fouled liquified thoughts,
— still and born of spore-spreading dreads.
O, Fear feeds on the wretched lot,
Festering fools who fumble in,
To the town that life forgot.
An early grave awaits you there,
A death so foul — so void of soul,
It eats your heart and strips you bare.
Fools’ll twist your tendons as a knot,
Knowledge has no currency there,
In the town that life forgot.
O, twist ye heads away, so sharp
Lest the lungs infect with spores,
Holding hostage ye human harp.
Here, fools, mycotic, see no rot,
They drink to drink their lives away,
In the town that life forgot.
This mycelium, hidden well,
In the heir — cradled in the lung —
Liquifies the mind, rings the bell.
In final toll, I beg you not,
To settle down in living graves,
In the town that life forgot.