Sweat trickles down his face, as faltering
He steadies once again his tired arms
And thinks back to that day's dark succoring
When first he was betrayed by horrid charms.
In ten years' war with virile did contend
Impious rule against which to prevail
The works of gods he mightily must rend
That delicately thus, he locks to fail.
Yet stumbling, allured by dainty worth:
How fallen art! Where naught can thus assuage
Without support to stand midst sky and earth:
Supplanter of the sun, a man of Rage.
Tho' staggering, he groans under the weight
But burden bears and shrugs not his due fate.
Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft
All Rights Reserved
