one said patience, the other said why wait

one said long suffering, the other scoffed

when easy pickings come on a rainy day

with all the green sprouts shooting up

to touch a blue sky shaped by guesses

too many –

zooming in on, focusing, cutting out all

those scattered thoughts though they may

be up to something. anxiety rocks the boat,

in this case atlas senses a ceiling wobbly,

fragmented roof about to crumble

so he puffs and heave, blows at the air

to make his wish: that ask appears to be

too much for the gods of olympia

who have separated themselves from earthly

concerns, not their problem

just atlas and those below. on earth praying,

in exchange for something, like a transaction,

not a plead. a request. not mercy, more like

a demand or else and that tension is thick,

like clouds gray, pondering, deciding

where they align to

and as always, sides are taken, coins

are pocketed, the sweat trickles down

atlas holding a troubled sky –

pick the right choice! he mumbles

as the air swirls about, unconvinced

to what right and wrong is, gray becomes

dark, gloomy, thunderous

with the first strike slicing through the

fog of uncertainty.

but it is blue, the sky said

to no one apparent

while time walks on, changing events

to permanence when

all the guesses rattling inside

blue got filtered out

because too much information is a wicked thing,

leads to this frozen, chunk

of ice floating across the seven seas

not finding home.

positive and negative disagree,

that’s where the tension is and earth

sends up currents blazing hot

searing away at clouds unfulfilled.

don’t blame me, the ground shatters

as atlas collapses beneath

the illusionary sky of objectivity

when sides are taken. it’s all a hoax

he said as his body rocked the mountains

unable to bear the carrier of

guesses.

it’s too much for one god. meanwhile

the gods of olympia have taken notice

when one of their own has fallen.

it’s judgement day, they said to the

actions taken, the paths trudged while

ice has finally found home

in ambiguity. called out to the tension

no longer mute, with arms stretched

towards a desolate sky

no longer blue. it is night, black

is the new game and the worshippers

each called out to their gods –

lightning strikes the heart,

with green sprouts turning to ashes,

why wait?

and then the gods shredded off their

mask. till only one voice remained. and it

started as a whisper, then a crescendo,

then a shout, a vibration that tore

at the blue and black, till

the offerings became poker games,

and only one side saw through it all

without filters.

it all seemed to make sense when two masters

each cried out at the same time –

sides were chosen, vows remade, indignance

rooted in. and. the tension. the tension. it was

like heaven and hell erupting

through green finding the end of the line.