Afterlife

Bury my ashes with the seed of a tree.
I'll become something more. I'll grow into a towering tree.
Me: inching high above the forest trails, the axe men come to cut me down.
They interfere with my heaven; high above the ground.
When I'm run through the factory, I
get ready to become your
loose leaf sheet where you sketch what
you believe after life should be.

(Never those men in the sky.
Never those verses that lie.
Never the resume of who has sined and yet to die.)

Sketch a bird in flight.
Sketch a forest of trees.
Sketch a spider weaving it's fabricated design.

After (a) life:
It's a life without thought.
A life with pure instinct.
A life with a purpose.

Yet the men who come along crushing roaches for it's ugly exterior.
Yet the men who cut me down to produce your sheet.
Yet these men are the wanderers of hell who interfere with out current state.

Hell is (being) human.
Hell is disattached instinct.
Hell is the atom bomb.
Hell is created in the chest of all men as they pollute the waters and crack open the very core of this world.
Hell is the devolution of man.

Oh this world will live on without us.

After (a) life, this is where you'll be.
Becoming something.
Becoming anything more than man.