Maybe Sisyphus has been carrying a block on his back

And Atlantis too

And Shakespeare?

There he is bound and gagged and losing his muse in the corner

What’ll he do now that his thoughts create a mirage on the road to nowhere?

What’ll he do now that his brain turns to a hot, swirling desert?

What’ll he do now that the words are dried and turned to dust?

What’ll he do now that he can’t keep pace with the phantom anymore?

What’ll he do now that he despairs all that could be written has been written?

What’ll he do now with the barren desk and dried-up pen?

Ah, but how could our anthromorphized heroes understand the sludge-and-concrete-filled brains of us mere mortals?

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