reaching for something that i'm not even sure is there. a life of wandering, roaming, searching for someone that i'm not even sure is here. a back-breaking eternity of holding the heavens upon my shoulders, shuddering knees and bloody wrists, a stream of red from my nose. atlas, for the everlasting whisper of time, supporting a world not made for him, not deserving of him, the job of a mule destined for a mere man. bones screaming for peace in his time, every single atom telling him to let go, yet his hands do not slip and his feet bolted steady. atlas, forever burdened by a world that couldn't perfect anything, an imperfect wasteland with sad people.
