Must we imagine Sisyphus happy?

Once

Upon

A time

Slips of silver tongued filth

Writ to measure

Soothed the pressure

Of a crushing world on a tiny mind

But the lines become binding in rewinding rhythm

Till that which was born becomes that which was borne

Life oft presents patterns,

Or,

How we perceive does

Not that the writing itself is a chore

But to keep finding themes

To vary the meters

To not be a repeater

Repeater

Repeater

Until that idea itself becomes so redundant that

Here we are, Sisyphus!

Say that it’s fun in the way that we mean about bulls on a run.