Prose Poem - Prometheus

Days droned. He lay stretched in binds upon thick oxen pelt, perturbed and drunken upon melancholy, knowing all beauty was made to be brief. Her hair was a thick tawny rope, reflected in his countenance was a tempest called forth by the Gods, her robes hanging loosely now and stamped scarlet by the talons of the flighty demon in his morning ritual. The robe was once of silken ivory reminiscent of her own epidermis, laced by ocher ribbon; and her beloved, her glowing lark- shamefully donned a conviction that would dispatch them. Hushing his bold, thundering cries, she perceived and obeyed them not; they were sounds of harsh command, to flee the fate he bore. Rather, her hands, bloodied past the limb, pressed and caressed his torso, his fresh and flowing wounds; she did this despite newfound knowledge: he would require no nursing, for they subsequently healed promptly and entirely before her. Fancying them both, was a vividly metallic colored and vapor-kissed storm, it followed harshly and without relent, a auxiliary damnation bestowed by the Cloud Gatherer himself; for Prometheus’ plea fell upon deaf perfected ear and dormant hearts, ‘I left the scalding saccharine touch not displaced, not unfulfilled, never dissevered from us in bitterness! I use it for its grave and grand and golden purpose, I gave to that which scorns me in spite of. For that is the very nature of divine generosity, do we not aid them to thrive from seedling to substantial! Even in fault, even in the midst of our repulsion for their meekness.’ His mortal maid; guilty of naught, but in desperation, asserted binding compromise with Hades… and was accommodatingly allowed use of chariot from the depths abreast the black and tenebrous river Styx, for safe ascension to the nebulous and desolate peak. She bid Hades not for return passage from eroded mount whereupon Prometheus still lays, still lays, longingly and maddened beside the blackened dust of the maid, long ago scattered and nearly fully depleted, preserved even so long by some force of his might. Inscribed by her anlace �" a dull little dagger which she kept inside her flowing robe- and fingernail which she used for detail, into the mount have been words, finalities-

We lie restlessly and with horror,

achingly here, still-

-not yet lonesome,

enough to counter the constant slicing,

those winds across our faces.

Rejoice reader! Rejoice adored criminal!

we lie here, all that we are perishes not here.

Eternity engulfs.