Atlas Poem by Conor Dowd

Atlas
holds the world aloft
and every time he moves
or coughs
or even breathes
the land reverberates and seethes
in little agitations -
cliffs fall toward the sea
and oceans simmer and grow restless in their sleep.

He's made of rock and stone,
you see,
ossified like bone and petrified like stone.

Alone
his shoulders cradle Africa,
The Americas incline upon his back
and an open palm contains
the seas,
he's older than the sun
and more ancient than the stars could ever be,
condemned to immortality.

The starlight often blinds him
but the night brings pure release
from light,
the mantle of the Earth beneath him
groans and grumbles as he shifts his weight.

But Atlas just remembers now -
his life is merely instinct,
only patterns that repeats themselves each day...
and worse,
with none to take his place
this crucifix remains his calling and his curse.