time to put fingers to keys and clack out
some semblance of a poem. sonnet? this
verse will not rhyme. morning beckons, my mind
resists this invocation – will this, then
turn out another stillborn poem? why
must life be such struggle? what can we do
but push forward, Sisyphus pushing on,
the stone of the world rolling back to crush
exhausted toes . . . yet we push on. life insists
perseveres, and carries us, drives us, life
persistent even more than consciousness.
and this is the wonder of life, that we
struggle to one day overcome the hill
and sculpt these burden stones into idols.

Copyright 2022 DM Pitchford