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.