Well, is the following a poem? Is it prose? It’s a rather a pessimistic piece, yet not without observations of some merit, I believe. What are your thoughts? Constructive criticism is always welcomed here, by the way — I do think the following could use some work. Thank you, fellow readers!
Lament of Sisyphus
Futility is a life-form dying forlorn in the flesh. Futility is so unremarkable in its presence, so tactful in polite society, so swift and subtle. It is a perpetual specter residing in our lazy bones. It moves in the death crawl of traffic; upon lazy buses and grimy trains, in sad people on the subway, in junked poets sleeping in the gutter. It lurks upon high society airplanes, in lowbrow highway lanes, possesses the severed head of house, served to spread with butter and bread. Futility is mute, yet not speechless. Futility is the iron lament of Sisyphus.
Futility hides in plain sight, as if it were on the end of one’s nose. Perhaps it’s on the end of yours? With each opening of a window, another closed door! At our hearts lie an invisible termite, biting in stitches to the core. Futility is the unexpected expectation, and like syphilis, contagious. This is what makes it so dangerous.
Look at me, ma, I have no body! Life becomes a protégé craft, superficial and shoddy, a division between them and us. Us? What us? Consciousness is a bleeding pus. All people seem to do is shout for freedom to enslave and condemn us.
This does not mean the end of man, climbing upon land in order to be post-eternity jizzing in the sea. It is simply that there is a line between Freedom and Futility; what is perceived as part of life and what considered obscene incredulity.
Freedom realizes being, actions choices. Futility an antithesis; mediocrity of unconscious placation; bad faith in an obligatory nation; decision to endless cessation; an assimilation into annihilation; the proclamation of a convention for cute stagnation.
All the while we are bleeding and breeding and never believing that freedom is like responsible breathing. Futility is but the dampened soul; seething; caked in bog mud, just another agonizing dream repeating the cowed bleating of our souls’ perpetual leaving.