Quiet Quarks And Spores

Adrift on a long trek to ascension 

A Rōnin filled with revenge and rust 

Searching for the weight of absolution 

Amongst the fungus and galactic dust 

Enter the elysium sustained by toadstool and mushroom

Surrounded by two gas giants that marks its tomb

Causing wild hallucinations from within its womb

Dense with nutrients like fresh fertilizer and perfume

Its workers are greys who maintain the mycelial boom

With no facial features and with no feelings to assume

They fly in pale-pilled spacepods that quietly zip and zoom 

Dispersing their small probes powered by quarks and spores that fume 

Staring back through the primordial stew 

A Rōnin has lost himself in his hiatuses

Wearing his kimono of residue 

He reminds himself what forgiveness is

The platinum ventriloquists fill their thriving workroom

Examining all skin like some sort of mundane costume 

Maintaining systems through their phenomenal dance of gloom 

Like spinsters engaging with false memory on their loom

Encountering the seams closely as to not undergroom 

Acting as a harmonious hive mind meant to consume 

Underneath its surface are palaces of sacred bloom

Marked by paralyzing rhythm and melodic doom 

A Rōnin lost in darkness and metal 

As varnished seance of exorcised time

Crying out calfblood hoping to settle

He laughs alongside the pantomime

© Niklen 9/16/26