A tumor sucks the sun, silences creatures meant to howl, and blotches bark— bulbous blackness eclipses a moon made for bathing— and me with no claws to cut, neither courage (and only surgery might cure this cancer).

A cataract coats the sky’s white eye, night is blind.

Hooked head fastened tight, a tapeworm suckles sewage— drains live and lifeless alike to grey— untouchable, a gallstone in the belly of the forest.

The jungle echoes hunger pangs, unanswered.

The cult of one dances without chants in a long abandoned temple— reinhabits a dried, dead wart— and festers a sickened silence through the trees.

The grass will not whisper secrets, it’s afraid.

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ChaoSpirals