Like Atlas

The loneliness weighs on me like Atlas

A constant anvil orb of absence

Massless bearing a gravity inverse to the realm of atoms

Carried in a muddled sphere of lost hope and faith

Vacuumed into the core of a vortex

Accreting with the hours of missing conversations

Hands reaching to the perimeter of bed sheets

Manifesting pillows as a person imagining fabric skin

Coating the world of touch into the world of consciousness

That although the silence is the same each passing day is not equal

The accumulation is exponential

So that as these years revolve the knowledge of inertia solidifies unmalleability

That ignoring the garbage pile is to swallow the albino pachyderm

Bulbous bulging belly protruding to kidnap my words back to childhood

Of my blueprint bones and the architect’s handwork

Stuttering to embrace basic conversation as if the layer of the planet

Breathable for these lungs is leagues below and mole-like

Shadowed and thin to the essence of what we are

Billowing like smoke of an element that would weigh leaden lungs to most men

In there, men slip of the gender spectrum into carnage stardust

Attempting amends and empathy with the lost children hunting for syntax

The family of sentences the words were originally destined but were lost into blue carpet

Conversations of staring up for god

Or the scribe’s transcriptions into the famished pages of a notebook

Hungering for a counterweight to hunger for them; the desire to be heard

In the cauldron factory of any divine being practicing humanity

Like elementary homework in the practicum of listening, being present

For others so that the self can be exalted in membership with the consortium of the all

This loneliness weighs on me like Atlas

A constant anvil orb of absence

Reminder in the film behind air that in the hope for more than nothingness

Is the only weight that will ever tip the scales