Puppeteer


Hey Sisyphus,
can I be your rock? 

Running, deafening, 
defeating your pretense in every 
lack of my sorrow
to guard yours,
and condemned to be so mystical – 
but never a mystic.
Those terrains of hatred;
and the procedures 
of such medieval liberty 
of my own affirmations and crimes
to be the blue hoarder
of humanity so astonishingly wishing
for a reason to behold the line. 

Oh dear Sisyphus, 
make me the rock that knows 
success is not my path;
and neither is happiness. 

With architecture of an empty street,
agony of time and space you 
so teasingly let the soul of mine
feel —
to tear up the canvas of a little love 
of modernity touch my feet
and become a taste of the wind – 
stratified, and modest, 
crude and yet the oldest. 
Wisest is the sin you make me do. 
Falling and falling so effortlessly
with nothing but desire too weary, 
too paradoxical and too 
monotonous for the game. 

Dear Sisyphus, 
give me a reason to be soulless again. 

The scars of lifetime of the holy trail 
beautified in me;
carved in me like a taint of my own
and I stand in this brief moment
just to be an object, 
of nothing but trepidation, 
for I know the end of it, 
but can’t tell you how it is. 
I can’t tell myself how it is.
Oh, to be inaudible 
even to one’s own thoughts! 

Dear Sisyphus, 
Can you listen to me? 
I suspect not. 
For these thoughts can never become words – 
and I can never reach life. 

I am doomed; 
it’s filled with misjudgments, 
bombarded with flights of horror
and I am just an empty doll
hoping to be saved. 

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