Nothing was left but mushrooms.
They fed on the dead.
And subsequently fed
on their own dead.
After a decade or two
new strains emerged:
tall and iridescent,
immensely graceful,
they swayed like noble dancers
in the toxic winds.
God looked down from on high
(where nothing had changed)
and saw it was good. And pretty.
But regretted slightly
that mushrooms can neither see
nor celebrate
their strangeness. Their Beauty.
