I sit in a green field,
beneath the outstreched arms
of a great oak tree...
I realize the tragedy
it is to be man.

Some thirty million light years away...
when sparks hurled through caverns
of dimensions, brewing the tight woven
networks of emotional webbing
in which each claymation figure
would be forced to endure-
in the firing kiln:
The flames thrown against
the skin of the mold until it becomes
a hard, cold stone...or
it shatters beneath the weight
of powers beyond its control.

In the shade of the tree
I look at my skin -cracked-
and smile upward toward the oak.
It feels the weight of the tragedy
like any other living specimen
The oak recalls to a time before man...

When great electric storms
shaped the terrain in preparation
of the gigantic kiln
where the clay would wash ashore
one day...the trees were there
and shed many a tear
for what this world had in store
for each who walked its shores...

The gods were new at this game
they shaped a piece of clay into a ball
and hurled it deep
into a firefly infested night
where it hung suspended-
the chess board, it was so-called.
As a joke it was planted
in man that the world was flat
to perpetuate its name.
In some ways,
the notion of a flat world
was soothing for it implied
that this life ends- at some point...
but soon man discovered,
it doesn't end.
It only travels forward
to arrive right back
where he started
no matter how far he walks
no matter which direction,
he eventually will be right back where he began...

The trees realized this long ago.
Like the great oak above me
they planted themselves in the ground
refusing to move for they knew
that there was no point.
At least they could stand
and watch the game perpetuate itself
as man continued to search
for a meaning worth traveling for...

Perhaps the next frontier
in the dark night,
or in the churches
where they call upon the gods
who like true artists'
moved on long ago
to their next masterpiece...

And so I sit in a green field
beneath the oak
content to plant myself beneath it
and rest
in peace
forever.

The oak does not fear death
nor do I.

If the trees all burned
and man fell with them,
it would not be the end
but a beginning
of another end.

Man beleives he is the only one
to feel pain
or taste tears.
But the one who created it
surely had felt it.
The one who made them
surely tasted them.
It was all part of the grand equation.

Man represents X while the great oak is Y
And the answer is always Zero.
There are no winners,
only players-
and prayers...

But is anyone listening?
Does someone have an answer
for your tears
or your smiles in the dark?

If the gods only knew
they would surely tell...

There's pain
represented in the creation
and they watch,
like a painter stares
at is final masterpiece,
feeling the pain
and the beauty
of each drop of paint
he spilled upon the canvas.

Nobody knows what it is to be alive...
even the gods.