The Cycle of Yaldabaoth

In the cool
wet air
of midnight, life
rests in quiet
annihilation.

Rotting roots
stretch
deep like veins.
Fungus
thickly colonizes,
then degrades.

Into what
did they venture?
From whence
did they not spring?

Life is not
born of its own.
It grows
from decaying
things.

Bodies buried
long ago still
reside in this
soil.

The lichens were once
lovers;
the ferns, a little
boy.

Others, long
forgotten now,
in quiet majesty
stretch their limbs
to stars
unending.