Atlas Telamon

In eternal genuflection, Atlas endures.
Head down, unscowled, compliant.
With dampened brow and dankened breath
He accepts his lot
Which was cast by the oracle ages past
Deep within the folds of his mythological youth.

Upon his broad shoulders he carries children: everyone’s children,
Hundreds of children,
Encased within a hard-shelled sphere of padded velvet and grace.
Children of the impoverished, disenfranchised;
Children of the prosperous, emboldened;
Children who are lost, are found, are blind, can see. 

And then one day, as you knew he would,
(You must have always known)
Atlas shrugged.
The mighty sphere creaked, tottered, heaved,
Rolled laboriously off his stiff shoulders
And crashed to the earth
With a thunderous din that shook the skies
And threw dust in the eyes of his unfearing children.

Atlas stood upright, 
Expanded his chest and inhaled the fullness of his time.
He took one enormous stride toward the light
And then another,
And another.
Each step booming with its finality through the very heavens.

And you, Hesperides, 
Favorite among his children,
Keeper of treasures and golden light of sunset,
Observed him from behind,
Stood in his shadow,
Felt his mighty steps reverberate through your pulse.

And you, Hesperides, 
Keeper of secrets, 
Watched as his silhouette loomed inexplicably larger, ever larger
His figure growing, not diminishing.
(You must have always known)
He strode only toward you.