Time's Fungus Poem by Felix Bongjoh

The head was the only sky without earth beneath,
A rumble the only drum over a dumb heath.
No hand dropped to talk to moss and gorse already
Clung to earth's canopy, shaven and ready
For gray and black birds, their windy voices thready.
Eyes waved the only light gleaning a field in a wreath.

Clouds in gowns swung closer and closer to cling
To a strait of crows growling and digging.
He fell on a river beach, sandpipers singing
A requiem in circles and ellipses
On the silver-coated road to a waiting numen.
Gallop O sunrays sprint, cruise down with an arrow's jump
As rumbling earth swirls and swells into a bump.

The dead sun woke up in snailing pieces
Creeping across beefy shadows of eclipses
Through a corridor over a path, ashy brethren
Lying in the midst of avocets' teases,
Their songs mocking waters below no longer gleaming
With mirrors to capture the face of heaven.

He dropped on sand, his only companion
A rifle with the pouncing head of a sledge hammer.
His low thud louder than the voice of a canon
Shook the spine of mud into a guarding hangar.

By him time crawled with a crab, the only farmer
Tilling bleeding frog faces of sand with no voice
But wearing ears to listen to crops of his choice

Hiding beneath a deep taupe earth, a sarcophagus
Growing with horns of death's silent fungus,
As thunder again struck the brain like a heavy hammer
Dropping on silence's thick glass without a fuss.

© 3 hours ago, Felix Bongjoh