Tipping Point

Upon the summit, or so nearly there
That he can taste it, the late trickster king
Stands straight to rub his aching shoulder where
It chafes the boulder, savoring the Spring.
On heights of depths he stretches, knowing well
How brief the respite is before the Fall.
Does he malinger, strolling back to Hell?
His past is endless prologue, after all.
Does Sisyphus, condemned for cleverness,
Muse on erosion as he makes his way
Back down the path? Does it seem slightly less
Sisyphean today than yesterday?
If not the man, the rock or mountain must
Before eternity be ground to dust.

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About Michael

Silliness is good
This entry was posted in poetry, sonnet and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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