“a sonet about Sisyphus”

Upon the crags where Sisyphus ascends,  
His shadow writhed by rock and fate’s cruel jest,  
A burden round as time that never ends,  
He grapples with the gods’ relentless test.  
Each dawn he wakes to stone as old as grief,  
A hope—brief glimmers—shatter on the slope.  
The summit nears, then slips with chilly thieve,  
Yet in the push he finds a secret hope.  
O mythic man, condemned yet never broken,  
The sweat and ache become his silent song.  
In labored breath, defiance is unspoken—  
He owns the struggle, though the days are long.  
For in the rolling stone and endless strife,  
Sisyphus sculpts from pain the shape of life.

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