Sisyphus Cringed

This place reeks of the smell of passing nights

and the stray stains of mistakes that sprout ghosts from the carpet.

The roots stack high to the ceiling.

Scale the vine and at the top there’s the same giant to find.

Floating back down to a coffin made out of bedsheets,

only to bounce straight back to the stratosphere of fear once eyelids shut.

She’s got her hand reaching out whenever the cold air is near,

prying each ear open to bottle up the same words inside.

I built a glass house of pill bottles and razor blades.

Glued it down top to bottom with currency.

A stray rock towards balcony’s perch and imaginary Maginot crumbles to dust.

The smell remains festering in the cracks.

It’s entrenched in the empty prescription crevices hungering for a weed to grow.

This place reeks of the smell of passing nights

and the promises screamed at a frail, broken frame,

wondering how limbs diminished to sinew.

At the peak of the white walls there are only more corridors;

a prison complex dressed up in memory as if it held certain truth.

The labor of slicing nascent dread from the climbers dulls steel and costs pounds.

Sisyphus took gauge of the scene and cringed at the fray,

for the veracity of mythology merged with misguided steps of history

bear common eyesight of circadian faults.

In the well of every hope is the knowledge that she’ll be reaching back,

and if there’s an interlude in the charade, the brutal touch will be craved.

It takes the pushing and shoving of plates to brew temper into action,

and nights have since passed where motion regressed to an unknown nothing.

The crust has sunk into a ball of gases that speaks in individual tones,

said “Adam was a cheater and Eve was a liar,

take solace to the grave for happily ever whenever.”

It’s staged in the drama of peeling walls.

It’s tattooed across the miles of dead skin.

I can smell it as the moon bows for the morning,

and it sits in its place be my sight conscious or wandering.

So I’ll cheat by the pills and pay their tolls,

singing songs over the telephone line that the medication is working fine.

Right at the time the giant is reaching down I’ll laugh in its face.

Her power is nil, my power is hers,

and beckoned on command I fall flat into cold air.

This places reeks of the smell of passing nights.

And the stray stains of mistakes that sprout ghosts from the carpet.

Higher and higher and higher they climb.

( ❤ Mitch)

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