In this barren land, there are mushrooms
For the gatherers, some are poisonous,
While other leave an impeccable taste.
These fungi, whose fruiting bodies,
Are beautified by color, are deceptive on occasion.
And we are mushroom pickers,
We pick the people who we see eye to eye with,
Those whose radar works in the same frequency,
And we make them long-lasting friendships,
The good people you surround yourself with,
Those culpable only of love,
The type that collides in shoulders, and cheeks,
And caresses a deep spot, like a button,
Inside the heart, that is pressed by a thumb,
And radiates like the rays of the sun.
How a little yellow dwarf is full of incandescence,
Heat and light, just like a lighthouse,
So gallantly tall, a beacon on a cliff,
That blooms like a tall poppy, selling you some opium,
That drug that hits you at all the right spots
For all the right reasons, holding you in a dependency,
Of tightened shoulder wraps,
Those knots that get entangled,
Like a symbiotic lichen,
In separable halves.