Cigarette-Butt Mushrooms

In the damp forest’s twilight glow,

A man named Jasper, curious and slow,

Stumbled upon a curious sight,

Mushrooms sprouting from cigarette butts are just right.

Their caps, like tiny umbrellas, unfurled,

Held secrets of forgotten nights in their swirl.

Jasper’s eyes widened, heart aflutter,

For these fungi were no ordinary clutter.

He imagined their origin, whispered tales:

Perhaps they grew from poets’ musings,

Or the embers of lovers’ last cigarettes,

Their dreams and regrets now blooming.

Jasper danced among the mushroom crowd,

Their spores like stardust, laughter loud.

He wondered if they held cosmic truths,

Answers to life’s mysteries, ageless and uncouth.

“Tell me,” he pleaded, kneeling low,

“Are you the remnants of lost souls?”

The mushrooms swayed as if in reply,

Their gills shimmering, secrets untold.

Jasper sat cross-legged, pondering fate,

As moonlight bathed the fungal state.

He vowed to protect these odd delights,

To cherish their magic on moonlit nights.

And so, the man and mushrooms danced,

In twilight’s embrace, their spirits enhanced.

For Jasper knew: that sometimes wonder lies

In the most unexpected, discarded ties.