Uneasy RIP/TOA

When the work of crafting shortcuts for our working

Is handed to creations of our hands…

Is the monster slain replaced by other lurking,

Just with heavier more somberly demands?

 

Does the scapegoat we call “struggle” guard our fate?

Is it a devil that defends from something worse?

Will we find the heavy burden of its weight

Was a blessing—or at least a caring curse?

 

Will we recline in well-earned rest or is it kneeling?

When our struggles finally end, should we be sad

For a future that eradicated feeling

That there should even be a struggle to be had?

 

Is our age-old human wrestle with that boulder

Of Sisyphus, with our purpose trussed?

Is there meaning in the daily tasks we shoulder

Till the day of ash to ash and dust to dust?