I have made myself a mausoleum of memos and pyramids of paperwork.
And while I dream of lighting a pyre onto this eight-hour travesty, each morning I am reborn.
I am Sisyphus whose rock remains unmoved each morn.
People ask me why my feet continue to ascend the mountain,
and why my hands still grasp that stubborn rock.
Ah, because I have long ignored how the grey boulder looks before me,
and each day I look around to find that the sky is bluer, and more tinged with tangerine than it was yesterday.
I have now forgotten how my muscles ache with each step that I take,
for I have found delight in the familiar breeze that cools me as I ascend into the mountain.
And when I finally do stop rolling, I will pick a soft mound near the peak,
where I will see the slow goodbye of the sun.
And though in time, I will turn to ash, my faithful rock will still stand tall.