Atlas

(after Plath’s Edge)

The mind is sleeping.
A mighty

Giant stands in quiet surrender,
The air of spartan arrangement

Is crisp in the curves of her muscles,
Her bare

Shoulders are claiming:
We will not topple over, i know.

Two gaping spaces stretched strangley silent
Each one in

A state of crumble, emptied.
She still holds

Her torch to light the same sky
Of steely jagged mountain majesties

stiff and resisting the
winds of change, cold of winter seeping in.

Her set lips reveal nothing,
Visage fixed on endless clouds beyond.

She is weary of the weight.
Her brow furrows, green.