Sisyphus consigned to fruitless spoils
Willingly approaches his sacred chores; his noble views,
Along the ledge of things, the crust, consensus, news
Of what the gods have built, his litany of foils
To all that is of him that was or ever will be.
His ambition moot. He has no equal in his toil;
He glories as he stands, his sweat, the oil
Of yearning for perfections never rightly seen
And never consummated in the breach.
He oversees his crown of thorns and spies the puny forms
Beneath the clouds far beneath his station as he mourns
For lack of company and for the less blessed so well beyond his reach,
Preventing touch to fingertips or comfort and from his lips a farewell kiss
Touching nothingness but briefly, he turns his back on all he’s missed.