The weight is dead on my back.
Dead like a corpse: The remains
Of a murdered love,
Sagging, growing
Heavier by the day with no end in sight. No light
At the end of the tunnel.
Just the weight on my back.
The morbid Atlas.

They run in circles around my ruined body,
My wounds open and
Exposed for all to see.
Each laugh and smile is really nine - nine cat tails,
Slicing skin and making the blood flow:
Mine and my burden's mix, fresh and old together
In a rustred lacquer. War Paint.
How can the laughter flow so easy as my blood?

They play in their ruined monuments, blind to
The burning buildings, the collapsed city around them.
Disciples of Peter, they deny the trust I gave them
With grins and jokes and smiles
While Atlas is left with the remains
Of his love. The monuments, the city, the world started and
Ended with them. The light of the fires for them, and for
Atlas, the remains.