Lichen and Pine

Lichen is a half-fungus that grows in some of the most extreme environments on Earth, from tundra to desert. It combines with something photosythetic in order to grow in light and in darkness. The duality of this plant holds significant role in the poem, as does the slow growth nature of the pine trees.

Living in the land of lichen and timber pine.

Seeing the world through sorrow filled eyes,

for some reason they don't understand why.

Jagged tops of mountains seem to curl and shadow me here,

like some odd Picasso nightmare.

Take this external space we depend on too seriously,

and it hollows your insides.

Look out your peering glass,

collect for the great mind.

Contribute what you can,

here in the land of lichen and pine.


Fields of wheat roll seemingly endlessly towards the east.

The harbored sea beckons me west,

with a siren's call she screams.

In between runs the lifeblood veins.

The hum is in the streets.

We all know the strange electric current in our hearts,

not knowing how to feel.

A endless supply of people wishing it'll all come crashing,

like a knife in between two vertebrates.

Both the responsible and innocent colliding together like flames.

Ivory tongues on leeches,

megaphones push sweet nothings into the air.


So maybe these shadows keep me safe,

hiding in the land of lichen and pine.


Run away, run away,

run away.

Be the Warbler flying,

basking in eternal sun,

both north and south, here and there,

laying in the forever nowhere.

Flowing with the wind like an open plastic bag.

Beyond your eyes I don't know what lies,

but it seems it's all I'll ever need.



I don't need you,

when every stranger fits like a glove.

For soul is just a word,

and your heart merely thumps.

Pay no mind to your thoughts.

Beat down your ego like a whipped dog.

For this is how it truly is.

We cower in our corners,

find small towns to escape to.

Try to contribute as little as possible to this perpetual backhand against your face.

Bite your sore tongue and listen to the ivory ones.

Just a harvester in an infinite field, we pillage and spew.

Run away, run away,

run away.

You made your choice,

here in the land of lichen and pine.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed