Ficus:

Deep in the jungle that is all
Worlds that live and breathe within the fruits of figs
The white sun that trickles in through tiny holes, punctuated in a wrinkled sky
Cast aside by shadows that move in the dark, wet space.
Hanging on a branch somewhere in ancient Aztec lands
Our earth, shrivelled up and miniaturised, rotating half way on its axis
Then back the way it came.

The pungent smell of war and blood.
skeletons, survivors, tiptoe among the dead
Underneath the quiet sense of peaceful living, always
Something is fucking, shitting, or eating something else’s head.
Cruel undertones tickle the path it all seems to take
And once again, the question of a god is raised.

Deep in the jungle that is all
Worlds come and go, like evanescent breath on polished glass
As insects, iridescent on the wings, emerge
Cocoons cracked open and devoured greedily with gemstone jaws.
Hanging on a branch somewhere in ancient Aztec lands
Our future, colliding with our past, hangs by a thread suspended in the air
And with mischief in its azure eyes,
A gentle wind dances playfully with death.