Sonnet #377

Roll down the mountain, oh great and terrible stone

I know I am defeated, again, and never will I find

The summit where the stone is still, a day to unwind

and bask in the shadow of the work I have done

When all the time the stone tumbles back

rolls over me and hurts so much and pushes

me into the mud and rocks, and crushes

every bone and tooth, i will them uncracked

because the stone must be pushed, and I must do it

for death will come soon, and the fragments 

of me pressed into this hill by the rock are my fruit

from my labors, my messy blood angels where ligaments

torn and stripped leave streaks upon the path to summit

The avalanches and the blood I make by incident