The Colossus holds up the sky.
He can't remember for how long
since he was torn away from a cliffside
and tortured with chisels
and propped up
and consecrated
and prayed to
and frozen into place
by expectations.
The sky looks angrier
than his unmoving eyes have seen.
It was a burden
which his broad shoulders could support;
now it threatens like an enemy.
It couples with earth
to rock him on his pedestal.
He must uphold.
He cannot bend.
If he falls, ashes.
Ashes.
We all fall down.
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