The nurse checks my pulse, a beat to affirm,
While Camus whispers in the machine.
Existence and essence wrestle inside,
But here in the hum, the hum of the fight.
Rolling his boulder, caught in the trap,
The IV drips its steady beat.
Nausea swirls in an iron fist,
Sisyphus smiles from the book in my lap.
Kierkegaard lingers, faith on his tongue,
Others wrapped in their own despair.
Revolt is freedom, the pages insist,
As chemo courses, a turbulent tide.
The nurse checks my pulse, a beat to affirm,
That I’m still here in life’s twisty term.
The absurd’s quiet light flickers near,
But still I persist—absurdly, I’m here.