A poem inspired by Sisyphus and the monotony of writing.
He was as Sisyphus, journeyed on an
incessant conduit of reiteration;
the pen was his bolder, impelled against the
steeped inclines of a densely littered page.
dark ink ran arid from its slender cask, a
gorge bled fallow by the sum of its harvest;
a garnering of insensible words,
each more redundant than its precursor.
Only through an arbitrary barb of conscience,
as the nib scribes furrows on the passive leaf,
does he consider the nature of providence,
through its many guises of futility.
And though the permanence of tedium,
curtailed his callow exuberance,
its feats sustain him through their labour and
resistance of a purposeless living.
“dark ink ran arid from its slender cask…”
That’s a great line 
. As with all the rest of it
Thanks mate, I do try 
Take care
Lew
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