Sisyphus V.2

I can feel the indentations in the rock

from where my hands have been before

pushing into the surface.

 

The sun punishes me;

sweat trickles down the bridge of my nose, dripping

down into my shadow.

 

I used to crane my neck past the boulder

to see how close I was to the peak.

Now I keep my head down and stare into the abyss.

 

Time has lost its meaning.

There is no yesterday, today, or tomorrow

—just being.

 

I used to count each trek

—have I surpassed a thousand, or am I still in double digits?

Infinity treats all constants the same.

 

To give everything and get nothing back.

To sow and not reap.

Potential that never becomes kinetic.


I reach the top, but

I don’t feel anything. The boulder rolls back,

and I watch gravity erase what I wrote.

 

Making my way back down, I spot

a pebble sparkling in the sunlight.

Was that always there?

 

My arm grazes the boulder’s flank, opening

a small scrape on my elbow.

Sediments in the blood.

 

The wind tickles the back of my hands.

My thumbs trace the calluses on my palms

—a topography of my efforts.

 

My hands find their place again; I think to myself,

the boulder feels lighter.

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