The mould grows black and into the very grout of me. It is green and then it turns to black. Sometimes small flowers of orange, tiny, can be found on skin.
It does not burn, this growing flower.
It has not a root or rot to see
It clings like a merciless creature.
The stain of it goes everywhere.
It needs not a drink, except the salty debris I leave behind.
I am mad not to wash,
Yet, I cannot let it starve,
This multi-coloured life.
I am only rotting in places,
The moment a limb drops I shall let it go.
I am only forest in places.
The malty flavour of mushrooms,
Guards me from the others.
I shall soon become part of bubbling yellow.
I shall soon become part of bursting mellow tree-root smell.
I shall soon become part of mulch.
I am only rotting in places.
I shall give up
Only when you can push a finger through me.