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Crowned by Wreckage

He faced the void like a cartoon hero,
not with the easy cry of “Believe in yourself!”
but the harsher creed: “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
The moths bore his manifestos into flame,
while history yawned, shelving him beside
pamphlets on extinct animals.   

And then—tree or tarmac, it mattered little—
the absurd he crowned crowned him in return:
not laurel, but twisted chrome and shattered glass.
The philosopher of chance was felled by chance,
his last ticket unused, his last line unfinished—
a coronation written in wreckage.

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