Labor of Love

Atlas Painting by Michael Creese

My love runs like blood through my veins
Nourishes and corrodes all the same

Talks of longing deep, and sorrows unfulfilled
In restless nights, and mornings bleak

My love labors like an ox in vain
Indomitably plows away

Deep, into the heart of this barren till
With a broken seed and an unbreakable will

In desolation, it flounders away
Till the last of its strength is sapped away

Dutifully it waters this wraith
Even if it plans to devour it

It seeks no salvation in suffering, so to say
Just feels that it is innate

A monument to this dying age
Lathered in sweet, sweet restrain

Like Atlas holding the skies at bay
Like Sisyphus rolling away

Finds the last semblance of its dignity stripped away
Cruel yet soft, in the gentlest of ways

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