Titan craftsman,
Your zealous brother has emptied the jar
Of all gifts and now, you must look elsewhere.
He, who is to be master of all beasts, stands upright,
Beholds heaven and beseeches one question,
“Is this me?”
Perhaps, you can scratch the answer from your head, Titan,
Note your handiwork is:
Unclawed, unwinged, unfanged, unshelled, unfinned, unswift,
Unfit to do homage to those that commissioned him.
Best to scrap it and throw him into the rubbish bin.
Though she nearly dropped her spear in mirth, even Minerva
Needs her due of supplicants and deigns to whisper
Wisdom into Prometheus’ whorled ear.
Each creature is at the mercy of the elements,
So why not make one a friend of man?
Wielding his flaming bauble, the creatures subdued,
The earth’s bones bend to his will and till her bounty,
And his embarrassing nakedness warmed to a flush red,
Man is made quite competent to preserve his own existence,
Offers tributes of cooked meats to Mt. Olympus.
If only you’d left well enough alone, dear Prometheus,
And not coddled your little masterpiece
Into laying strips of fat under the prime meat,
Incurring Jupiter’s already impetuous wrath.
Playing man’s advocate is an ill luck thing.
Futile, your strength against the chains,
Stretched as a canvas of agony on Mt. Caucasus
Where a vulture lunches on you liver renewed
Eternally, an ingenious a punishment as your benevolence.
Does something other gnaw your tender heart as well?