Atlas arrived at your front door this afternoon.
He stood waiting, head bowed, arms shaking
From bearing the universe in its entirety,
All that has been and will ever be,
Dying Earth, cold Moon, blazing Sun,
Mars, Venus, Pluto, Mercury,
All dots akin to marbles, playthings,
In the vastness of his burden.
And he gazed at you with eyes that cried a silent plea,
One of a thousand fading stars, a million candles burning at the wick, a hundred trails of smoke
That wisped into the nighttime air and disappeared entirely.
All this you saw, and more,
And so you bade him to bend lower than he stood before,
And with fingers that shook
But gripped tighter than a secret kept,
You closed your arms around the heavens
And, bracing yourself
Against the doorframe,
Placed his troubles on the frosty ground,
Eased the stiffness of his shoulders wide, and
Led hm through the door inside.
Atlas lays now on your floor,
His smile thin, his whisper faint, weakened inconceivably,
But at peace. His leaden muscles are at long last free
To be human. He may err, repent, love, find joy, cry with no apology,
Rest easy in arms
That ache from the weight
Of the skybearer's task for only a moment,
Let alone all of eternity.
And while the multitudes of worldy voices call from outside, beeseeching,
Time may wait. Time is kind.
Let Atlas be the one carried, let the eyes
Imploding on themselves slip closed,
Kiss his brow, and let the bearer of the stars
At last find darkness and sleep unopposed.