THE TITANS
For decades,
Nameless,
You strove toward the
Dead volcano,
And never got there.
Gentle Giants.
Silent Sisters.
Yawning clouds.
Voyaging with a stately grace
Across every sky for miles.
Curves the Guggenheim would die for.
And warm, inside, with
Countless years
Of contemplation folded
In your gaze.
“Taller than the pyramids!”
They said, but No-one,
Ever, thanked you,
For putting MORE clouds
Into a wet, winter sky.
A Crack.
A Sigh.
The earth shook,
And gathered you down.
Miles away
The Highway is calling.
