Sisyphus,

With calloused hands and heavy soles,

Pushes his boulder up the hill.

But his boulder is not one of rubble,

Of granite, of shale, of sediment;

It is the Boulder of Progress.

Like an inchworm squirming

Along the continuum of Time and Space,

He shoves.

And after every triumphant shove,

Every law passed, every verdict reached, every movement begun,

It seems as though change has occured.

He has gotten The Boulder up the incline!

Oh, joy!

Alas,

With every victory comes a great plummet;

A slur is hurled.

An act of hate is commited.

A life is lost.

Just as Sisyphus has dedicated his life

to championing the cause of the crag,

Another's life will be confined

To mornful Instagram posts,

To news reports,

To a detention center

To bodycam footage. 

Maybe Sisyphus' quest is not futile;

Maybe, someday, he

We

Will no longer be marching, stomping,

Boycotting, protesting,

Fighting, praying,

And dying.

But for now,

It is unresolved and unsettled.

So,

Sisyphus pushes yet again,

The hopeful glimmer ever-present in his eyes yet remaining.

Next time, he says, I will push it higher.