Thought of a Terribly Strange Chair 

The guards are guarding the guards, as always,
And the factionalism within them sprouts
Like the usual weeds in the sidewalk,

And you, my friend, unless you’re one of them—
Unbroken slab of loyalty or weed
Hungry for turf and your own patch of light—

Are dirt. The walls will fall on you, the probes
Root through you to suck up your resources.
Be of good cheer. Relax in the strange chair

Of the dark, downward kingdom of fungus
And change, which, as the guards and their guards press
Down on you, as the plants siphon your worth,

Continually pushes back up at them,
These words woven of millions and millions
Of mycelial filaments and time.

There won’t always be concrete or gardens.
True, there also won’t always be you as
You were. But as long as there’s Earth, there’s dirt.