“Fire on the Forgotten Wood”
On an old wooden plank, weathered by time and softened by moss, something quietly remarkable awakens. Two clusters of orange fungi, delicate as coral and bright as small flames, emerge like lanterns lit by the forest floor itself. Their folds twist in curious silence, thriving in a place the world forgot—a patchwork of damp wood, creeping shadows, and blurred green life humming quietly in the background.
They’re not ornamental. They’re not accidental. They are the forest’s way of reminding us that beauty often grows where decay begins. These fungi feed on what once lived and shape something new from the echoes of what once was.
To most, they may go unnoticed—strange shapes clinging to rotting wood. But to those who pause, they are a quiet rebellion against invisibility, a radiant pulse in the overlooked corners of nature. Like thoughts that surface uninvited, or ideas that thrive in neglect, they burn softly—not with heat, but with fierce, unapologetic color.
They bloom not for applause—but because life insists on expression, even from a forgotten plank.
🍄 Quote
"Even on forgotten wood, life lights its lanterns—proof that creation thrives not in applause, but in the courage to bloom where no one looks."
🔥 Poem:
“Embers on the Plank"
It does not beg the eye—
this fire born of dampness and rot,
these fungi flaring like untamed thoughts
spilled from the grain of silence.
Orange twists in moss-soaked hush,
coral flames shaped by hunger and shadow,
growing not to please,
but to persist.
Here is the forest's fierce aside—
no sunlight, no ceremony,
just a bloom that burns without burning,
fed by the wood’s slow surrender.
They rise
from the chorus of neglect,
each fold a syllable
in nature's stubborn language—
that beauty, real beauty,
often happens offstage.
No name.
No need.
Just color surviving
on a plank the world forgot.
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