It is our own mountain before us;
it is our own boulder,
and each of us is,
alone,
our very own
Sisyphus.

We heave,
shove, strain
onward, upward
with the daily struggle.

The bones of our tasked
limbs do not snap.

instead they are often chewed
upon by the hounds of our
history.

To one another, we’re
strangers, human,
yet still such a mystery.

Commonality,
forgotten as we feud
in regard to which of
us has the greater undertaking.

The answer is always the same,
despite the fact that so few
of us are willing to hear it.

At sundown,
when we go into our
homes for supper and
too little sleep,

the stone rolls
down to the bottom
of our hill.

Dawn will break,
the stone will wait,
and each of us,
unbeknownst to
the others,
will begin
to push
again.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018