Left to burn in a kingdom of rage,
I sit on my throne/of souls/a cage
Fuming, unseen, to reclaim the earth…
Assuming, that is, that life has more worth
than plotting or playing with Charon’s goldpieces
which rattle like lungs when the breath of life ceases.
All of existence has been folded and cut
and left in the rain under a patchwork of mud,
drying in lines, writhing in sane.
The low sound of voices forms a net of black chains
webbing hope down and stretching it thin;
proud Persephone greeting dark end.
So the sun sets another brief day
plucking up souls along the way
to lie in the mud, the web, the flame,
and bribe the gods by pretending to pray.
Ask Sisyphus and he will tell:
it’s always a brand new day
(image courtesy of Jep Sculpture)