Conveyor

The earth lurches and I’m thrown off-kilter., myself bewildered. A once stationary plain — a testament to tedium and manifest boredom — presently rolls beneath my feet, carrying me to I know not where. 

I care little at the time, for such is life — the sundry quakes, innocuous shakes that hardly break the status quo. But ho, here comes the speed. Thrown to my knees, the forthcoming breeze speaking volumes on velocity.

Tall trees I spot on a verdant plot, themselves moving not — a grove of oaks — just beyond my racing plain.  And it gives me pain as they’re sustained upon their patch of solid ground, while I flounder. Lush, rooted trees, me green with envy as they slow sink out of view.

The sky, once commonplace, crystalline blue, shifts in hue to fuchsia, then waxes roiling red.  Now it’s clear this conveyor-belt plain conveys me to the end, to a plummeting death — a swallowing drop — the last stop for pathetic prosaic me.

I attempt to flee, though half-heartedly, (hardly making it off my knees). For in reality, if it were meant to be — if I were meant to succeed — I’d have been a tree in a hallowed glade, where dryads play and parley with vain and blithe-some moon, far from faltering plains of doom. 

What’s a man to do? No route for escape, so I sit and wait cross-legged and contemplate my impending fate, (with prayers that it’s a figure-eight). And I reflect on all these disaffected days. Did I ever rightly love this place, this tedious state, this static, groaning, mundane plain? (What’s a tree seen anyways?) The air smells clean as I careen unhindered at breakneck.

Thus resigned to take my final breath, with thumbnail do I etch an epitaph on the skin made bare upon my calf; so that those who find these lifeless bones below, washed up upon the distant shores, may know evermore that if not for the fall I’d’ve remained obscured in a far-off vacuous vapid world. And there I’ll lie to testify — until the starlight dries — that without the fall, I’d’ve truly died.