A man of many words had a nasty mountain to climb,  graced by the presence of gods, a minute no more. 
A mere reminder of the nasty sack of clay, a fetter far away.  
For in my eyes the man crafted mountains of labyrinths,
of course to me, how silly, of course he can climb that mountain. 
The mountain . . . oh no, was higher than hope . . .
A simple shadow of greatness, that blistering rock, 
Skin that he warms, bones that he cracks.
They say he never bends his ashy flesh, nevertheless for the ones that command the halt of death abyss. 
His woolen bed is forgotten, pavement, stone for pillow or sheet is all that is left. 
His breath was born black, his fate swaddled in iron, married to shackles forever more. 
They count the bills, sniff the coins  
As he pushes and pushes and pushes . . . 
They lick their chips, and snort their ego 
As he pushes and pushes . . .
A dash of narcissist, a tale of Cronus, 
He pushes and pushes, and pushes . . . 
His tin like marrow never oiled, never silent, always cracking, ricketing,
Like cavities in your root . . .
Devouring our watches whole, eternal ticking all foretold.  
That light kissed tan, that black licorice dark --
Just another breath to push the rock. 
Born charcoal and grey, coughing ash. 
One day old, one day old.
Another is born, breath nasty deathly, phlegmy black
As he pushes and pushes . . .
One day old, one day old, 
They lick their lips count their folds, a dime chimes 
Another is born, that light kissed tan, or that black licorice dark --
The tale of Sisyphus' Hill, the first black breath to push the rock
The rock: the warden of time, the monument of chains . . .
The silent cell of stolen days . . .
To push the rock evermore.