THE MODERN SISYPHUS by J.T.A. Reddy

How easy seemed; how close it may appear -

summits where fell arms wring red and shake

to push the soulless destination near

like limbless promised conscience prompting a break

of trust in iron-cast print and the hand that held

it outstretched, past a self-prescriptive muse

that shatters what is certain and expelled.  

Enter Sisyphus, siphon longing news

to fetch relent to his unceasing climb:

‘‘Would surely short the sufferer’s howling scree,

and bring his weight back down and end his rhyme,’

were thoughts in Pathos spent in gravity

consumed, for reply did come and short it read; 

“No, for I know glee in the path I tread.”