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Sisyphus takes the day off


by Ed Higgins


what-ta-hell, fuck this

he snorts brushing 

the dust from his shoulders

reeking sweat

a rictus grimace 

bent with aching knees 

ankles a mess

soles calloused

and slit

 

a deserved glass of white wine

to wash away the exhaustion

 

yes, wash the guilt too

hubris-cleverness

offending Zeus

 

hopeless addled dreams

 

God knows he can't be

switched to a worse punishment

 

every climb to the sky

a bittersweet birdsong

moments later fading into

echo off eroding canyon walls

 

his bruised heart over the years

hardened to grey stitched pain

 

in the winter

a fleece of snow

adding to the slipperiness

of the scree

 

fuck this, he says again.

 

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