Have you ever wondered
why the world feels
grey and aged
beyond belief?
The aged rubble
named Zeus lays
beneath our feet,
arms broken,
head wreathed in
laurel ash;
a hanging garden
on its noose,
haloed in sand;
all yesterday’s
heros are memories
to be spoken
slowly around
the dying fire;
an old man’s crown
of grey glory,
his fabulous muscles
broken braided strands,
his tears murky
with years buried
in the spine of
the world;
a creeping grey
foal foolishly
brave in the face
of it all
digging, scraping
at a fading ruin,
and the world
spinning
slower on its
axis.

Tags: poetry