God? by Adam Zittel

As I wandered through the wasteland
Picking my way through the piles of rubble,
I came across an ironic beauty:
A huge painting, half sheltered by a leaning wall.
The scene depicted was green, and lush,
A clearing, in a vibrant forest
scattered with wildflowers and dangling vines
surrounded by towering, awe-striking oaks.
At the center, on a fallen log, reclined a satyr,
Idly plucking the strings of a lute,
resting his hooves upon the carpet of green,
His lips curved upward in a welcoming grin.
Such detail had been paid to each leaf
Each individual tendril and vine
And each blade of grass, or curve of wood grain
That it seemed as though I could simply step in,
Out of this dark, dank, lonely hell
Away from the masks and the pain and desire,
To leave behind the anguish and agony
Into this scene of wonders and comfort
Of life, love and peace of mind
But oh, what painful irony was inflicted!
For time had wreaked its penalties upon the canvas,
And large holes dotted the image,
Gaping wounds from which the illusion’s lifeblood
Gushed like a fountain, shattering the wondrous credibility,
Turning it from a thing of dreams and wonder
To a cruel mockery of what could’ve been.
Oh, to only be blind to those gaps!
The tiny maws out of which dreams had leaked,
Leaving behind only a memory.


And then suddenly I see it.

I AM in the painting!
The vibrant green is all around me,
simply waiting to creep up from beneath the rubble.
All I have to do is reach out
And overturn a chunk of crumbled concrete,
And the flowers will be there, blooming,
Simply waiting for me to cast my eyes upon them,
They’re there, waiting.
And I know they’re there just for me,
Just like they’re there for each person only.
The grass may be covered by debris right now,
But the seeds are in the ground!
Where ever there is a seed, there will be a forest.
The tendrils will reach around the rubble with time,
And what was concrete will soon become sediment,
A layer of light gray between darker, stony colors.
Wherever there is destruction, and war,
There will be life eventually,
And THAT is the secret to satisfaction.
Life always wins!
Indeed, I reach over and push aside a jagged chunk of wood, and…

There’s nothing there.

The ground is dry, and dotted with gravel,
Charred chips of wood litter the barren earth,
That blows away into a cloud of ragged dust as I cup it in my hands,
leaving chunks of rock and wood and bone behind.
And so I strike a match
and with grim satisfaction hold it to the canvas,
grinning softly as the fiery circle spreads,
consuming the oil paint hungrily, desperately.
Soon I’m laughing openly,
As the fire crackles happily,
And I walk away, as the beautiful scene
Browns, then blackens, then crumbles to ash.

Unbeknownst to me,
Up through the ashes pokes a tiny, green, tendril,
Curling slightly as it reaches towards the sun.