dreams and ideations are
weaved into gold laurels,
tight circles of serpentine as they fall,

carelessly flung against railroad
tracks and burnt bridges
to be smothered by black smoke

you’ve got a habit of leaving
people behind– don’t you?
you laugh into the rings of ash

there’s a melecholy taste to
running away; it sticks against
the roof of your mouth,

past sharp teeth and soft flesh
and buries itself in your unyielding
throat like a parasite

you’ve become a host to these
horrors, shuffling day by day,
wondering, horribly, if this is all life is:

to be Atlas, and to hold the Heavens
prostrate against your back,
burdened by gods you do not believe in