We Might Get Well Tomorrow - A Series Of Poems

Sisyphus Stumbled

You say the rock gets lighter, I'll tell you I can't wait.

My stained red hands won't know the difference
Until it all comes barrelling down once more.

So I'll start again from the bottom tomorrow,
To repeat the reasons to be one with the rubble
In the first place; the clouds scoff in pity and hate.

Ascended parading blades view my cosmic punishment
As I mark the dents and bumps and pebbles to trip my path
As if to lay green spotlight to my lack of balance
Against the unwavering rock carved in smirking war.

The top of the topless hill handcuffs clear air to lungs
And donates statue upgrades to legs and lips and heart,
Removing the need for net but the tightrope as one -
A heaven that flirts with fact once the rock slips away
To kiss the bottom, a doomed hourglass lost in place.

No outstretched arms can penetrate the one man line
'Til the rock shrinks enough to last with the blades or behind my back,
Yet is it body or boulder that bears its plastic purpose?
Do the red hands lunge it downwards or do pebbles lead the way?
To see hills in ruins is the only thing that turns me on?
Enlarged rocks flatten heads just to flash the spotlight for my own state?

Alpha and Omega ties me limb from limb to where I belong,
Wind torn from abandoned lungs, legs failing their one job,
Pupils swapping vision for attention, call to arms,
Stale food fighting their slave, Water sidelined, nights fade to lights,
Head lost in the mist, heart lost in the mo(u)rning,
Bitter winds clinging to blue arms, illusioned strength flickering,
Two lifeless burdens clashing for isolated life, lost race-

You say it gets easier, I'll tell you I can't wait.