Phalloides
death angels in pale cowls
preside over a feast
of crumble and decay,
and i wonder
about these fleshy bald thugs,
cudgel-like as condyles,
how they lord so young and brash,
basking in wind,
as autumn buries
the greying carrion of summer,
cold as an aimless gravedigger,
shovel after shovel
of gusty scuffles of fate--
the only excuse needed
to batten on the fallen
and to prophesy snow.
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6/30/24
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