the errand from two masters

one said patience, the other said why wait one said long suffering, the other scoffed when easy pickings come on a rainy day with all the green sprouts shooting up to touch a blue sky shaped by guesses too many - zooming in on, focusing, cutting out all those scattered thoughts though they may be up to something. anxiety rocks the boat, in this case atlas senses a ceiling wobbly, fragmented roof about to crumble so he puffs and heave, blows at the air to make his wish: that ask appears to be too much for the gods of olympia who have separated themselves from earthly concerns, not their problem just atlas and those below. on earth praying, in exchange for something, like a transaction, not a plead. a request. not mercy, more like a demand or else and that tension is thick, like clouds gray, pondering, deciding where they align to and as always, sides are taken, coins are pocketed, the sweat trickles down atlas holding a troubled sky - pick the right choice! he mumbles as the air swirls about, unconvinced to what right and wrong is, gray becomes dark, gloomy, thunderous with the first strike slicing through the fog of uncertainty. but it is blue, the sky said to no one apparent while time walks on, changing events to permanence when all the guesses rattling inside blue got filtered out because too much information is a wicked thing, leads to this frozen, chunk of ice floating across the seven seas not finding home. positive and negative disagree, that's where the tension is and earth sends up currents blazing hot searing away at clouds unfulfilled. don't blame me, the ground shatters as atlas collapses beneath the illusionary sky of objectivity when sides are taken. it's all a hoax he said as his body rocked the mountains unable to bear the carrier of guesses. it's too much for one god. meanwhile the gods of olympia have taken notice when one of their own has fallen. it's judgement day, they said to the actions taken, the paths trudged while ice has finally found home in ambiguity. called out to the tension no longer mute, with arms stretched towards a desolate sky no longer blue. it is night, black is the new game and the worshippers each called out to their gods - lightning strikes the heart, with green sprouts turning to ashes, why wait? and then the gods shredded off their mask. till only one voice remained. and it started as a whisper, then a crescendo, then a shout, a vibration that tore at the blue and black, till the offerings became poker games, and only one side saw through it all without filters. it all seemed to make sense when two masters each cried out at the same time - sides were chosen, vows remade, indignance rooted in. and. the tension. the tension. it was like heaven and hell erupting through green finding the end of the line. it's what is inside. said one group. it's what is outside. said the other.