Sisyphus Eternal

Sisyphus Eternal prose poem

Photo by vintagedept

Positivity, happiness, love, these
Words you threw at me, expecting
Me to grab on to them and connect.
Expecting my instincts to take over,
Expecting my soul to grasp onto them
Instantly knowing, feeling, understanding
Their nature, knowing how to mould them,
How to use them, how to enjoy them,
How to extract the essence of each
And absorb it into my very being.

But how was my Soul to recognize them
When the only time they ever came into
Contact was the first time I met you?

These concepts are alien to me,
My metabolism rejects them. I have
Been moulded from a different clay.
Faith is mocked at, love is looked upon
With sympathetic, condescending eyes
As one would look upon a child who
Does not know better, who cannot be
Expected to know better. Happiness
Is an illusory dream fashioned by
Sadistic temptresses who wish to
Draw us lonely souls out into the
Desolation of the desert, lured by
Mirages of companionship, until
Stumbling, collapsing upon the harsh,
Overheated sands of reality, our throat,
Parched beyond recognition, finally
Finds Love… In the kiss of Death.

Upon these arid soils you wish me
To plant the seeds of happiness?
Will these sands not drain the seeds
Of their moistness even as they touch
The ground? Will all the lifeblood not
Be instantaneously drained, turning to
Vapour before it had a chance to affect
The infertility beneath it? Is destruction
Not always easier than construction?
Is this body capable of housing so pure
An entity as love? And is it worthy?

You made wings of feathers and wax
And you flew away to Paradise. You
Also, in naïve benevolence left me
Wax and feathers that I may also
Accompany you to Paradise. It was
A noble plan, one that only a heart
As pure as yours could fashion.
But your plan is colored by the gay
Perspectives of your own sphere
Of existence. There is a fatal flaw.
Those feathers and wax do make
Wings, and they do carry you, you of
Light Mind and Lighter Heart, quite
Effortlessly to Eden where the rivers
Of milk and honey await the chance
To adorn your perfect skin. But those
Selfsame feathers and that selfsame
Wax, have they the ability to carry the
Weight of a heart encumbered by woes
Uncountable, grievances unresolvable,
Insults not abreacted to, insecurities
Not smoothed over, paranoias not
Pacified, and anger that has been
Allowed to simmer for generations?
I doubt any wax yet fashioned by Man
Or angel possesses that strength.

And yet, Angel, on your command,
I don the wings and I set off on my
Sisyphean task, ever rising, only to
Fall again. Fighting Gravity, fighting
Reality, fighting the tidal waves of truth,
Fighting against my brains repeated
Admonitions for the crime of allowing
That unwelcome guest, Hope, into my
Soul. For in giving me those wings and
Giving me that wax, that is all you have
Given me. Hope. Not paradise. Just hope.

With every beat of the wing that takes
Me closer to the skies, the rush of
Wind seems to fan the flames of hope
Just that bit more, kindling to life just
That much more of my heart that had
Long since learnt to be dead, flooding
Veins that had long since grown into
Disuse with the vibrant, longing bursts
Of bloodflow again. Life was once again
Within me, within this corpse that had
Long since been dismissed as a relic,
As refuse, as waste left over from the
Turmoil of human existence. Life was
Returned to this corpse at long last.
But it was not a match. The wings
Felt heavier, the sun got warmer, the
Wax dripped quicker, each drop an
Image, capturing the entire spectrum
Of light within the confines of this drop
Sized cosmos. Each reflection of light
Seeming to mirror the fiery depths of
My soul which aided the melting of the
Wax even as the sun attacked it from
The outside. It stood no chance, it was
Outflanked. You cannot outmaneuver
Hatred with love. In a battlefield where
Only one participant is willing to shed
Blood, there can be only one victor.

It melted, I fell, my lesson was learnt,
In the harshest way possible. Now,
Sanity surely must prevail. Surely
I would not undertake the same task
Again? Did I not prove to myself its
Futility? Is not every indication to the
Contrary? Is this not pure rationality?

But there along with the melted wax
And the threadbare feathers, lies the
Image of you smiling, telling me you
Will wait for me, waiting always with
A smile. It is that smile that makes me
What I am. That smile that transcends
Reasoning. It is that very smile that makes me…


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Mohammed Doucheman

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Student of English Literature, amateur poet/writer, bibliophile, cynic, food connoisseur.
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