What if Atlas let
the sky fall from his shoulders?
He must grow weary
from carrying his loss,
returning to his post
day after day,
straining to hold the pressures of
his failures and faults.
He looks down upon the River Styx
and can only see flaws in his reflection.
Perhaps if he crumbled from his poised
position for just a moment,
sunk down into his bed of soft earth,
and let the tears slip onto his cheeks--
he could finally
loosen those tense shoulders,
sigh into his pillow,
and soften that furrowed brow.
What if he took a hand off the atmosphere
to reach up and stroke
his ever-clenched jaw,
all while the weight of the sky
shifts and slips.
Could he flip his wild hair from his face,
lean over the Styx,
stare at his reflection,
and say between deep breaths--
“it’s all going to be okay?”
About the Creator
isa
There was a young man named Bob
who desperately needed a job.
Everywhere he looked
said they were booked,
so he searched for a bank to rob.
Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford7 days ago in Fiction
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