The flat grey sky
lowers itself to the ground
obeisance
beneath the weight
of too much impossibility
the sun has fled
and birds fall silent
everything left
impending
as only distant rumbles
tell us
something still remains
we expect a myth
to rescue us
an Atlas to bear
the brunt of our sins
but gods won’t carry us
able-bodied as we are
and our wits
dulled from disuse
must rise again
to think an exit
where none exists
we wait for a hero
and deny ourselves
refusing to see
that we are made
in that heroic image
all that awaits
is our choice to act – Caroline A. Slee