annoyedNever a fine work
Of art,
I was a broken potsherd
On which the craftsman painted
A wizard.
My one shred of grace
I lost.
Left with only a rock
To roll uphill,
I chose to push.
At least, in pushing,
I could remember her.
I hate rocks.
Yet they tell me the granite
Has sculpted my hands,
Shaped muscles,
Honed my soul.
A stern beauty, they call it.
What do they know?
She was a pitcher
From which I greedily drank.
Since her loss,
I pray that I have somehow
Refilled it.
at a poetry website. Even though the poem was in a contest clearly marked as 'science fiction/fantasy,' most of the people reading it had no idea who Sisyphus was and thought the last section was talking about environmentalism. O.O
Don't people have brains, anymore? Don't people read, anymore--I mean, even just the Author's Notes section in which I quoted the literary reference that directly explains this poem?
*whines*
