toadstool patches smell of fun, in dank woods where i run.
on a stone in a clearing an old man who's hard of hearing,
sat amidst the death and gore, of flesh ripped and tore,
eyes shut tight, his cracked lips mouthing words.
as all about were singing birds.
a mantra of silence amidst a delicate song,
the river running yellow from his other tongue.
cleansing, fresh, and minty