Civilized 2010

An indigenous Tribesman, the last of his kind
The closest man to God, last of the civilized.
Sitting beneath a bent tree, looking out,
he breathes, 360 degrees,
he see's the entire picture, and sighs.
He opens his mouth, whispering
like a soft breeze he captures an image,
a memory of his lost tribe.
There is no one left, but none of them have died.
they have gone "home", to prophets,
servants of the Godly people, ensnared.
He sits like a pillar, supporting his weary tree
no one sitting next to him sharing his view.
The closest man to God, and what does he see?
A cricket struggle up the side of a fallen branch
a spider waits at the other side, ready to lunch.
So much like civilized society, the industrialized.
A great river flows alongside, it's cadence never changing,
beholding creatures of myth, uncatalogued monsters...
This which he experiences is Gold; the savage life.
Who grows old but the man who dies before his end?
who dies broken but the man who can not forgive?
Struggling towards more, a struggle he will never win.
It is truth he beholds, under the tree, in the river rushing passed,
Truth in the silence, in his sigh, his lonesome breath.
There was a man like that once, who forever remained unmasked
and when nature called to him he became the Greenest man.
The truth is looking out, at the river, the wind,
listening to your thoughts, chosing which road to take, which fork in the path.
Much is said in his silent posturing, in his loyalty to the tree his friend,
He neither speaks again, nor gasps,
He's had many questions, and no Man around to ask.
But he gets the purest answer, when he waits and listens.
When he sits under this tree, twisting a stick in his left hand,
feeling the breeze and the twitching of the land.
He gets his answer, from the river and the winds,
from his own whispering solitude, suddenly he grinss
He confidently pokes a finger into the river,
and closing his eyes for the very first time,
this moment in this life will be his last.
Noone around to pour drinks of farewell,
but he is at peace with his past.
No man has tainted his view,
no opinions or falsehoods have skewed.
No moments of ruin, no regrets at another mans hand.
He sits stoic and humble, his thoughts are within his grasp.
He is the closest man to God as he dies here silently
under this his weary tree, it too goes with him quietly,
swallowed up into the moss, the earth, the grass
the Tribesman goes out gently, he is Golden,
as the river rushes past.