Tied down by iron chains 
tight across my ribs, 
two-ton manacles ‘round my wrists — 
beyond immobile: I am inert, 
heading subterranean, 
sinking through solid rock 
like quicksand. 

The one I love, the one 
who is supposed to save me, 
says he is still amassing provisions, 
collecting coin, waiting 
until it’s not so sad 
to be the hero I need now. 

Only I can save myself, but how 
when I cannot lift a toe 
from this ground? Excalibur had an out. 
I could do with that magic 
but I am nowhere near his rock, 
nor the necromancy of Golgotha. 

Breathing…I can still breathe. 
Inhale the strength, exhale the weep. 
This mountain’s roots only stretch so deep. 
I will stand on the shoulders of Sisyphus 
and join his indefatigable feat.