Dead men speak from living maws,
as cordyceps, rampant, affixing jaws.
Gnashing flesh of self and kin,
rending veins for phantom sin.
Their funhouse mirror reflects no face,
no eyes to chart the charnel waste.
Yet, from the blind, keen cheers abound,
libations for the hungry ground.
As the last lichling tumbles in,
a eulogy from vast Cybele’s skin:
Wormrotted husks neither excel nor flee;
the apex of equitable unity.