The Inevitable Burden of Being

The world feels compassion for Sisyphus
picturing him groaning and laboring,
jagged blades of stone biting weeping palms,
guttural clamor from beneath a sentence
with no shadow to shade him from the torturous heat.
But in truth
he had an adder's tongue with no taste for coin
and worried not about darkness and dimension and dirt.
He breathed in the cradle of history
and ceased embraced by eucalyptus and sea foam,
the sun gilding cheeks kissed pink by his bride.
Yet the world bemoans the composition of damnation
and clucks their tongue at futility.
And in the searing torridity,
a rock.
A task.
A thing to be moved.
No aspirations or dreams unrealized.
Flecks and planes and heft.
Does it dream of the sodden chill of a cavern?
Does it yearn for culmination and wind
and the view from the top of the world?
And should it reach with fingers stiff with age and time
to fight a destiny unchosen
and push back?

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