Sisyphus

The winds won’t stop. They stab into your skin with every step you take, but you won’t

stop. Perhaps it’d be better tomorrow. Perhaps finally the sun will rise, and

parch your skin with his nourishing rays and wring you dry of sweat 

and tears and blood, until you beg for water. Water which

perhaps cleanses and quenches your throbbing body

but then surges and swallows and sinks your

home and drowns everything you love

so you have to move on and on

and take another step

and accept that

such is life

and that

you

are

running

outofspace and out

of time but you can’t outrun

the past the despair the shame and

the dread the truth and regret the rising ocean

the feelings washing over you that same shade of

blue. You knew it was coming, that perhaps it is true

that no matter how high you climb it’s never enough, that it’s all

going to come back crashing down in one giant wave so you can’t look

back you can’t look down because you’re afraid to see how far you’ve come

and you’re tired of looking forward to false promises of rest, to pull this off you have

to push on and you look out at me, your reflection in the water, and one must imagine you happy.