blackeyesunrise

Today,
I am sick of fighting
The last five years of gravitas;
An ill-defined weight
The consistency of sunsets,
A loose and lugubrious bearing
Come undone.

Always
I have clung to the hope
That the gods might intercede,
A sword, a shield, a horse
With wings, and an idea:
Somehow I was meant for more
Than a metaphor
In an improper myth.

Truth is,
We all carry our own boulders
Up that hill, shoulders
Pressed against grit
And grunt,
The significance
Of impetus — a long awaited
Tumble to resume the cycle
In our private dusks,
Freed from the burden of
Light and moss.

So then,
At zenith’s peak a rolling rock
Comes crashing down,
The strange moss grows,
Sick of fighting
Inertia, desperate to hold on –
How can it
As it clings and gathers
For dear life,
Flung every which way.