Drunkards

Drunkards

And destiny ascends,

accompanied by concomitant ambiguity.

The firmament remains ever unfettered by Sissyphus's plight.

And that ambiguity condenses into a sickly sweet precipitate that the locals call hubris.

It consists mostly of flights of fancy seasoned with delusion.

It rains on and on,

perhaps drowning the beings down below.

No man can inhabit lands such as these,

at least not without being compelled to gaze into Sissyphus's eyes.

To be haunted by his countenance is to have a certain privilege,

that is to be haunted by,

all that ever was,

is,

and shall be.

Even the strongest man is reeled in and become privy to an unspeakable truth.

The journeyman faces such morbidity by accepting suffering as a curious axiom.

And foolish men attempt to subvert what is inevitable and inescapable.

The majority of mankind sleeps while dreaming of greener pastures,

waking up in sheets soaked with hubris,

destiny rises on a new day.