The Mycelial Mandate

Beneath the topsoil, a filament ghost
A neural network, a silent host
It doesn't think, it doesn't feel
It just computes the way things heal
A million miles of protein thread
Deciding which of us live or dead
From the rot of the oak, to the moan of the breeze
It's pulling the strings with a fungal ease
We built our towers, we burned our coal
We thought we held the sovereign soul
But the root-king laughs from the crypt below
With a spore-laced sigh, a fatal blow

It’s the Nerve!
MYCELIAL WEEEEB!
The planet’s hidden,
Creeping dread!
It’s the Nerve!
MYCELIAL WEEEEB!
Feeding on the lives we’ve bled! (Halt! Bite!)
A synapse of the soil and stone
That reaps the flesh and calls it sown!
The network pulses!
 Cold and vast!
It calculates our die is cast!

It signals death in a chemical code
To the ant, the worm, the heavy load
Of the mammal’s brain, the bird’s lament
A silent, rhythmic government!
We are the fruit, the fleeting bloom
A brief illusion in the gloom
It plots the graph of our decay
And washes the carbon all away
The clearcut mountain, the poisoned stream
It processes as a fractured dream
A glitch occurs, a species dies
It recalculates, and re-supplies!

You think your will is carved in stone?
You’re just a node upon the throne!
A single pulse, a signal sent
Your free will is a testament... to its...
(Full stop. Silence for one beat.)

It’s the Nerve!
MYCELIAL WEEEEB!
The planet’s hidden,
Creeping dread!
It’s the Nerve!
MYCELIAL WEEEEB!
Feeding on the lives we’ve bled! (Halt! Bite!)
A synapse of the soil and stone
That reaps the flesh and calls it sown!
The network pulses!
 Cold and vast!
It calculates our die is cast!

We thought we were the crown of clay
The architects of our own day
But when the nukes make the sky go black
The fungus will just... fight back with a snack!

It’s the Nerve!
MYCELIAL WEEEEB!
The planet’s hidden,
Creeping dread!
It’s the Nerve!
MYCELIAL WEEEEB!
Feeding on the lives we’ve bled! (Halt! Bite!)
A synapse of the soil and stone
That reaps the flesh and calls it sown!
The network pulses!
 Cold and vast!
It calculates our die is cast!

So bow your head, you arrogant ape
To the network's perfect, fungal shape
It doesn't hate, it doesn't love
It's the will of the earth below and above...
A mycelial, cyanide embrace...
The planet’s pulse... in time and space...