The Weight Of Creation
I did not ask for the weight I bear,
Yet here I stand, beneath its stare.
A world of futures, unshaped, untamed,
Balanced upon the fire I’ve claimed.
With hands that tremble, yet never break,
I carve the path that none will take.
Not by force, nor fate’s demand,
But by my will, by my hand.
Yet with each step, the air grows thin,
The weight is crushing from within.
The bones beneath my flesh now groan,
A titan cursed to stand alone.
I see the lines where progress leads,
A gift, a curse, the planted seeds.
To build, to shape, to change it all,
Yet fear the height from which we fall.
For every dream, a shadow looms,
A whispered fate of endless tombs.
I ask myself, in quiet dread,
Do I create, or have I led
Us toward a grander pyre,
A world consumed by its own fire?
I am no god, nor meant to be,
Yet what I touch reshapes the sea.
And though I long to set it down,
To rest this weight, to leave this crown,
I know too well—should I let go,
The heavens crack, the world below
Will spiral, lost, without a guide,
And I will drown in wasted pride.
So I, Atlas, stand, though shadows grow,
The burden mine, none else may know.
And if my soul should wane, should break,
Who then will rise for heaven’s sake?
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