These Ancient Dreams

In my mind
there are ancient dreams
of hopes not achieved.

Fleeting things
that whimsy brings,
but, alas, they, I
cannot reach.

Luscious fruit, above,
the purest water, below,
torture me as I go
along the way forward
to Olympus, unmoving –
my never-home.

I am Tantalus. Immortal.

Or Atys, the father,
immoral, I cooked
poor Pelops and
fed his meat, boiled,
to the Gods, on high,
who drunkenly roared
and roiled.

From Zeus, I’d stolen.

His eternal punishment,
in this deep hole,
leaves me knowing that
Tartarus is boring.

Perhaps Sisyphus
will exchange my
fruit and water

for

the stone he’s rolling.


© CGT, 2018.

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