Painting of a Giant

The world birthed an arching column, its broad shoulders eclipse the sun obfuscating the golden grain colored rays What are their thoughts? Are they an eternal refrain? Their hunched posture, knees pillowing breasts Ashen hair cascading like the foam of the Aegean, the waves of time flowing down its taut trapezius A breathing landscape living atop the one we roam It is done roaming, there is nothing left to see Its eyes cavernous, with pupils yawning endlessly The pressure of its presence turns the sand it sits upon into a picnic blanket of stained seawater glass yet with all it carried, I sense it carries no burden for there is no more journey left. There is gratitude that the only act remaining is to wait.