At what point did old Sisyphus defy the punishment of his incessant frustration,
by turning each identical failure into an act of deliberate meditation?
What goes up, no matter how high, must, at some point, come down,
Whether it's Prometheus being devoured upon a rock or Deucalion watching the whole world drown.
Purge me of this undeserved hubris, lest I anger the gods once more,
Make me put down my sword until I know exactly what I'm fighting for.
Time holds onto a structural thread,
and pulls,
trying to find out what I’m made of,
what will be left under this distracting veil?
What am I staring at?
What am I running from?
What am I so goddamn afraid of?
About the Creator
Dee Yazak
A technical and science writer by trade that dabbles in poetry (and occasionally fiction) for fun. Her poetry focuses on themes of aimlessness, nostalgia, and the loose, delicate threads of human connection.
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