The Old Blog in the Desert

He bares the weight of the world
It shows in his sagged shoulders
Oppressing, compressing, depressing
And it is neither a good feeling
Nor a good look
To throw it off would mean:
great violence
A struggle he’d surely lose
For his burden is stitched
Seamlessly to his bones
Like voluminous, leathery wings
Blackbird to bat
And it is his own fault
For having created his own monster
His design, his being, our horror