Sisyphus,
I ask of you:
“How might one imagine you content?”
A life full spent
in ceaseless fight
against foe who,
in simple rest
and abject state,
will soon attrite to core
and,
in pieces,
nigh on thee erode.
When edge wears edge to nothing,
and thy palm hath learned its grit,
‘doth burden bleed to bearer,
or is labour
all that lives?’
If alleged-immortal
boulder breaks,
does defiance yet abide?
I ask you this again,
not in ornamental heed
nor in mocking, performed jest;
for singular is the beat
of an inorganic, apathetic heart,
and of a soul bereft
Deathless stone of enemy
against which your life,
for all its sorrow-morrows,
is spent in abstract, unfeeling contest.
Thus I thrice repeat
lucky interrogation,
for I struggle to comprehend:
“Imagine Sisyphus content; imagine him in glee;
imagine him ungrounded,
but never him naive.”
If, in heart, in line, he lives,
in death may his soul be free?
How can one
fight natural law
that withers,
but never bleeds?
Yet, upon scarred knee,
no song of wounded man —
hard fought, cavalier-bellowed —
vow low-groaned
but in constitution,
lacking despaired plea…
Will future grace
idolatrous shapes
of unworthy ears,
or will it recall
the esprit earned in wound;
A wisdom borne and tried in scars,
a wisdom won
but never bought?
Dec 6, 2025
Dec 6, 2025 at 3:19 AM UTC
Sisyphus,
I ask of you:
“How might one imagine you content?”
A life full spent
in ceaseless fight
against foe who,
in simple rest
and abject state,
will soon attrite to core
and,
in pieces,
nigh on thee erode.
When edge wears edge to nothing,
and thy palm hath learned its grit,
‘doth burden bleed to bearer,
or is labour
all that lives?’
If alleged-immortal
boulder breaks,
does defiance yet abide?
I ask you this again,
not in ornamental heed
nor in mocking, performed jest;
for singular is the beat
of an inorganic, apathetic heart,
and of a soul bereft
Deathless stone of enemy
against which your life,
for all its sorrow-morrows,
is spent in abstract, unfeeling contest.
Thus I thrice repeat
lucky interrogation,
for I struggle to comprehend:
“Imagine Sisyphus content; imagine him in glee;
imagine him ungrounded,
but never him naive.”
If, in heart, in line, he lives,
in death may his soul be free?
How can one
fight natural law
that withers,
but never bleeds?
Yet, upon scarred knee,
no song of wounded man —
hard fought, cavalier-bellowed —
vow low-groaned
but in constitution,
lacking despaired plea…
Will future grace
idolatrous shapes
of unworthy ears,
or will it recall
the esprit earned in wound;
A wisdom borne and tried in scars,
a wisdom won
but never bought?
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