Hyperion, Misnamed

The Kinetic Anabasis

They call me Hyperion
as if the marrow were only light,
as if height alone could authorize a voice.

I have stood in grit
that resists the ink.
There are weights the page will not hold.

Xenophon knew this,
not the geometry of the march
but the frost in the lung,
men breaking formation in the skull first,
then in the knees.

Plato wrote of forms
clean as marble kept indoors.
I have nothing against him
but the absence of weather.

A philosophy without salt
is a room that has never held a body.

Laurels arrive polished.
They do not account for the palm
split open
on fact.

Let them crown each other.
Let them circulate light
like a closed economy.

I remain with the friction,
the sound of weight moving.

History is not written by the clean.
It is carried
by those who could not set it down.

Joe Garvey

PoetKing
https://houseoffireborn.com