Sisypha
witnessed the finality of existence
when her vision went toward the sun.
Too much light makes thing stop.
I wonder some if Abraham Lincoln's been burned into my retinas.
Go away, Abe.
Sisypha went
and experimented with using
physics to prove her illness.
Once, when she was young, she went
under. I can't keep the clouds from swinging.
The laughter shifts into sickness.
In the duality
of Everything she places her trust.
Unchurched, she learned of things unwanted.
Her eyeballs saw things a bit too rusty.
Underdone, my brain can't keep from shaking;
without anything set, I get more forgetful.
Pulled between what is
& has been,
her awareness is unkempt.
Sharply, Sisypha believes in the unseen.
Dissecting my mind & mine raggedy organs has
left with me a little more than something.
Sisypha sifts through the pages
of yesterday's proofs,
without much will or strength.
Shrunken, her courage kinda remains, continues.
I, drunk with a mystical rage, will
tip over so soon.
Entirely wrecked, her daily mindset becomes
feckless. Stepping forward,
though without movement, Sisypha
tunes in and escapes too willingly.
O! the synesthesia's absurd--
liberty isn't always freeing.
Fried, tired, & tried, her body: lazy an' unemboldened,
seeks rest. Her parts worn, her balance unsteady,
she doesn't dance for too many weeks.
She lies in red bed-sheets, can't reach the nightstand.
I live with Sisypha always.
She sleeps adjacent to me, eternally.
/She has buried herself in me so deep./
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