My foot fell through the hallowed ground
(I’m not a ‘man-you-find’—what then?—
I’m a ‘man-you-take’, and in a
‘Persephone Embrace’). Pray, tell
Me now, who would ask Atlas, “Can
You lay your burden down; take off
Humanity—to not wear our
Toil like a crown?” (I’m a ‘giant’
Whose steps trek the moonscape bending
Of the proscenium spanning
A limelit town; whose own reckless
Footing leaves twin bridges to burn
The gall of every forger
Down. I thump across the pages
Saint Andrew jumped to turn, his sword
A cross of words sworn once unbound).
Are you Pro-‘Me’, or just the ‘Us’?
Pardon the floral sacrilege
A Pantheon between legs must
Seem—press our wax into a sound
If ‘it’s hotter, man’ to sell south
The cotton which darts in and out
Of my bourgeois mouth. (My demons
Begotten are gettin’ it, now…).