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Oh, ye, putrid humans.

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Somewhere, on a damp road in a dark forest lies, the traces of my last steps.
Somewhere, in this wretched world, my soul wanders, reaffirming that I am inept.
Somewhere, in that dark forest, where my body lies decaying,
The Saints of the Trees are attempting a revival, saying:
“Oh, ye, who are fallen, whose eyes cease to comprehend,
Whose mind ceases to tick,
Whose tongue ceases to dictate,
We seek your soul, to revive your rotting flesh;
We seek vitality, it is not yet time for death.”
I hear their call, for my ears continue to filter.
But am incapacitated, my blood has ceased to flow,
And my limbs simply sit here.
My death has been untimely, a shock, so it seems,
For the earth has hardened under my blood pools;
Such sickly moisture has forgone all living streams.
The Saints of the Trees had little time to converse with the Gods of the Earth,
As to where I was supposed to be given rebirth.
So, now, the Gods of the Earth scream, inexorably, for my movement:
“Oh, ye, putrid human who has fallen, we beseech thee to remove thy thickening liquid from our skin.
Our children suffocate from your body; an extracting would bring great improvement.”
How I wish to comply with these authorities of creation,
How living inside myself would bring considerable elation.
After millennia of searching, apologizing to the living none the less,
I relinquish my search and am obligated to digress.
In the time of my degradation, many more, far too many, bodies have accumulated.
The Saint’s pleas and the God’s cries are all but quelled,
Their greatness felled and have been left: Emaciated.
How haggard a land we have opted for,
No more than piles of soot.
How our wasted corpses have made the beauty of this earth stay put.
While the vines intertwine our toxic shadows,
Waiting for a reprise.
We dance, to dilapidated tunes,
While the earth hopes for our demise.




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