Is my name not poet, speaker of solo truths?

Was a rainbow not the muse leaping from my toddler tongue?

Were my blood wine, my shaming rain, my hellish flares,

my frying brain, my laser glares,

would that be not enough?



If Atlas let go, swung to and fro, my shoulders once free,

the sky slid down, the earth upside-down,

would a single one notice? Would any miss me?



If all I bear worth mere ashes of care,

why still should I stand there?



Glued to no floor, shall I worry no more,

and slip listless between the sun and the sea?

Vanish I will, past space, without trace.