Above
another crushing day

atop an obscure peak he leans:

faint Sisyphus at long last sees
the rock he ever rolled go free
beyond the dreaded edge then
drop where in the past
all promise stopped
and cast him down
that steep decline
in the tyranny
of time.

He
questions how
could this now be.
Was this just mythology?

A
tale
well-told
we would believe?

Or
were
we always
free to leave?