The Offloader...

You, they say, can't pay for the ink -
The subsistence for the pen,
Leave alone the mind that did slink,
With you to you know where -
Past, present and future,
Isles of hope, tsunamis of despair,
Faces washed up, washed away,
Aftertastes of a delight, a shindig,
Cringes that choke, make one pray.

Atlas might be propping up the sky,
But had he an inkling without your hand,
He too would bemoan the supply
- A lading black hole ever to expand.
Even enfeebling what holds the soul,
Vitally, you let the soul empty its hold,
For, what it gets by way of dole 
Is to be relished to fill, and then told.