display | more...
The trees created God in the image of themselves.
An opiate to assuage the pain of thinking.
I toil in the dark loam beneath undulating shadows.
Rooted in juxtaposition with futile prayers.
Contained by the canopy and crucified by the mere thought of branching off out of formation.
I polish the earth with pieces of myself.
I spread myself out to sate the forest, but they ravish my body in the hope of soiling my essence.
I am compressed beneath the soil, annexing my fertile soul to the detritus that provides sustenance for the trees.
I hear the litany of the worms---a crescendo of passion that reaches its full height as I am torn apart in the shade.
I play my role as concubine of the trees.
I will be recycled and reborn to play the part of another hapless human venturing into the woods to find respite from the sun.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.