The Weights Which Atlas Bore

Erase the tremble-some tenors
Oh early dew of my chorused heart,
Thy lips of sweet, moonstone perfume
Burn as flames within my senses.
Each petal from my frozen soul
Of lilies feels dashed ‘gainst the shore
Of foaming southern seas; the fog
Filling the salty air we breathe
As we flail our arms futilely
To fail from drifting far away
Toward the murky, Hades depths
Where no ships sail from sepulchres
To greet us in lonely passing.

I feel the weights, which Atlas bore
Wound across mortal shoulders frail.
Alas! Round world Angels can’t bear,
Where are my sacred wings of gold
To guide me to eagle clefts?
Gone! Their gone away and now none
Do dare to hide my hated form
From the cold and calloused handling
Of natures grip ‘gainst her kindred—
The monster his master could not,
Nor dare not, save for his own self.
And so, he bore: faithless
To fall, and watch all fall away.

The last vestment of the chilling night
Hid by children—vestiges
Of all unspoiled innocence—
Is now defiled so greatly.
Greatly, greedily, why fall ye
So far from you charted courses,
And cause deviation to death?
Yet, could not even Seraphim
Seduce Satan’s torture chambers?
Yea, they could, and yet, they give me
The burden of their blessed crafts;
So, in my sorrow, I carry
What they could, but refuse to bear.

And in my sweet, sequestered, spite
I hold both our pains tonight.