Even Futile Arguments Can Inspire Poetry

Good Night, Sisyphus

I—who once believed we could achieve
that ideal world if only we weren't stuck within,
     content with,
          benefitting from
               the status quo—
concede. Tap out. Exhausted, all my arguments
are spent, they lie in tatters, bloodied whispers
     schoolyard taunts,
          the sticks and stones—
               bones flogged 
across a futile battlefield. I haven't breath 
enough to launch a fresh attack. You win—
knocked the wind right out of me, and I
admit that this is how it's ever been.
I never wanted change
     for sake of change but clinging
          to old ways, old enmities,
               some need 
for one to lose while others win
has brought us to this place where hope's
     laid waste.
          I will dig its grave
               with bare hands
your proffered shovel is too tempting.
For now, I look across a timeline 
     stretch of years
          that vanish
               on a cold horizon -
tarry blacktop glistens in the sun. I set
my weary feet to walking towards
     a dying star
          keep walking
               towards the silence
till familiar noise and heat come raging
towards the last of us, incinerating all.

Today’s a new day. No planet-killing event ended us in our sleep. Another chance to get it right, but I am pessimist enough to be 100% certain that we won’t – not today, not in my lifetime, and maybe never. You might think this was written to today’s prompt from Robert Brewer, but it’s not – I started it yesterday. Maybe later I’ll try a more optimistic take, but for now, I just thank Chris A. for helping me see how utterly futile idealism is, even when it is glued like a boulder to the soul.