You reached rope cords to bone,
shifted weight like earthquakes;
my arms felt like fault lines,
wrapped thin in ligaments.
I cracked your rock ridges,
bore down between fissures,
to nestle in heat
at the crest of your lungs.
Your shoulders wept on me,
groaning like old floorboards,
I brought you to the floor.
To kneel, perhaps to crawl
and fill your mouth with dust,
aged Atlas, brow brought low,
you balanced worlds on stone
muscled over your spine.
You have never appeared,
(to me, at least),
so much like Christ, in that moment
you are mortal,
admit I am your cross
and I stooped you too far.
Adding your comment: