Lament of Sisyphus (A Poem)

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!

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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.

3 thoughts on “Lament of Sisyphus (A Poem)

  1. I’d call it a poem. An interesting one, too.

    One very minor observation, “obligatory faith in a bad nation” would have made more sense to me in these days than “bad faith in an obligatory nation”, but either works.

    By the way, the myth of Sisyphus has a sort of appeal to me, since just about everything in life but reproduction is futile because of death, and reproduction merely resets the stone at the bottom of the mountain.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Hi, Paul! Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts. You’re absolutely right about that line — and it was intended to be written as “bad faith in an obligatory nation”, but I had a moment of dyslexia!

    I also find the myth of Sisyphus very appealing — especially after reading Albert Camus’ essay on it. Finding values in one’s life and sticking to those values is somewhat heroic to me. And as Camus had said, “one must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

    The ancient Greeks had a lot of things right, I think. Love reading, especially, some of the Stoics. Roll on, Paul!

    Liked by 1 person

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