The Pains of Atlas

Oh Atlas, no world is upon your shoulders,

When you put in comparative weight,

Of lifting a heart upon thy breast,

Which you have been taught to hate.

 

What pain can beset that of which,

This realm has not a cure?

For only through the immortals’ transpires,

Can life be restored as it were.

 

And other than sorrow, what pain is dealt,

In this devil’s blackjack game?

What antidotes from fairy belts,

Will let peace interlace the pain?

 

For unlike sorrow there is no opposite,

To immediately make it debloy;

There is no other hand on the bar,

There is no hope within joy.

 

Oh the emptiness rattles with such a weight,

It presses thy chest like a stone,

For even within a room full of people,

You will find you’re perpetually alone.

 

Oh this hurt is deeper still,

Than the furthest canyon or hole,

For through its depth it’s risen to heights,

Which previously had never been told.

 

And so, dear Atlas, there is no weight,

Until from your side you have bled,

Simply to make little red teardrops,

In place of the ones you can’t shed.

Reviews

[.]

Sad but true,poor atlas! I loved how the flow went in! Great job! 100/100 :D

[Nicole]

thank you so very much! :)

[.]

U're welcome! :D