Hey all you imaginary readers! Here’s another poem I wrote more recently.
– Francisco Goya
The Giant stands,
Boiling worms fill his head,
knowing he could just stoop,
Could melt like lead.
His horizon is empty now,
His people, ground under human heel.
The laughing mountains are gone,
monoliths crushed with fire and steel.
The Giant dreams
of a Joutunheim fastness,
of smiling and dancing with the dead.
Even in sleep, they lurk beyond veils of brass.
Dreaming makes waking torture,
a rot beneath his eyelids thrust.
His tectonic body hemorrhages
red that trickles down pitted cheeks, rust.
The Giant feels,
gnawing against the scabs of past faults.
Except when it matters;
his heart pumps Kelvin cobalt.
Sinews snap, knees buckle.
A brittle sentinel is he
cracking, but still reaching forward, up,
grasping at mercury.
Note: I have to put periods in between my stanzas because I can’t figure out how to make a line break in this editor!