I am no Titan, no molder of men, no bearer of illicit gifts.
Yet, I am chained to Caucasus and gnawed on daily.
The bites are small, but I feel the rip of flesh and
hear the feasting beak snap open and shut.
I rest at night, heal a little, and hope in a hopeless situation.
Inevitably, as dawn approaches, I sense the growing rumble of chariot wheels,
and am slowly able to see that I am less of my former self.
Someday I will cease to exist altogether.
I will finally and fully be consumed.
I have never been to Corinth, never been enthroned, never plotted for wealth.
Yet, I am guarded by Cerberus and forced to roll rocks up oily hills.
Every time I near the top of the crag, I entertain Faith:
Maybe I will finish, maybe I will rest, maybe I will understand.
It never happens though. No matter the angle of approach or the force of my efforts,
I fail, and the mundane task drains me of purpose.
My convictions and beliefs ooze from my wounds and drip on the ground;
so, I watch what used to guide and sustain me
mix with the greasy grime coating my careworn footpath.
I never fought in a war, never looted and raped after victory, never blinded giants as No One.
Yet, I am adrift and my journey home is endless, painful, and filled with loss.
I rot from lotus leaves, empty ecstasy, and the promise of clarity from crystal balls.
I am sucked into Klub Charybdis, dizzily swirl around, and dance with ghosts.
Religion, society, my own kind, and yea even my own polluted mind lunge at me,
trying with row upon row of talonous teeth to chew me up simply to spit me back out.
Seemingly sweet voices seduce and tempt me to crash on ego’s endless shore.
It seems there is no safe passage, no solace,
and I don’t know what to feel anymore.
Where is Hercules to rescue me,
Virgil and Beatrice to guide me,
Athena and Penelope to love me?
I am sickened, yet strangely reassured,
by the thought that the only moorings I can tie myself to are
the final folly of my labors,
the empty ignorance of existence, and
the pitiful promise of invisible gods.
