In shadowed wood, where silence clings,
A fragile stalk in moonlight springs
The inky cap, with a velvet head,
Emerging softly from the dead.
It rises quick, then starts to melt,
A fleeting crown, that time has dealt.
Its gills dissolve to midnight ink,
Too soon it's gone, gone in a blink.
But oh, the beauty in its fade,
The way it drips, unafraid.
A slow descent, a weeping grace,
Its own decay a soft embrace.
So much like life—so brief, so bold,
We bloom, we break, we can't be told
How long we have, or when we'll fall,
But still we rise, and give it our all.
We drip our dreams like blackened rain,
Through joy, through grief, through love, through pain.
A poem written in the dusk,
In flesh and ink, in breath and musk.
And when we melt, like the cap to the ground,
No trumpet blares, no cheering sound;
Just quiet art in nature's hand,
A final drip, a last demand:
That we like it be fierce and bright,
A moment's spore, then into night.