Atlas

I've held open this hopeless heart for so long.
My hands are battered and bruised, the blisters
Have long turned callous, products of cyclical calamity.
I'm well aware I define disaster; even my dreams are empty:
Inevitable thievery, even as smiling strangers
Stagger my quaking steps, calm this tempest,
Long enough for temptation to taunt,
              "One more try, just
                One more try..."
Please,
This is the way that Caesar died:
Over and over, liars breathe at my chest
Knives that puncture foolish, eager flesh.
And I shift my shoulders to adjust one more
Piece of baggage to the rest.