Between Circles and Spores
In a chamber, moist and dim,
An anxious artist’s urge was grim.
Eyes ablaze, geometric face,
Sketching circles, lines in place.
Below the ink, a fungus spread,
A covert life he silently bred.
Art and life, entwined in dance,
He fell into a sacred trance.
Mad or sage, who’s to say?
Within each stroke, life’s cycle lay.
He withdrew, his end in reach,
The spores of thought his art would teach.
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