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.
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