The fire was stolen.
It was never truly meant
to be ours, though we relished
in the flame. We sat close as
heat rippled off into our chests
and into our souls. You sat
closer than I. The fire was never
meant to be stolen. I couldn’t hide
my inability to contain it. Soon forests
were ablaze with such ferocity you could
barely even cry. I never wanted it.
I thought it would secure us energy
for an eternity of life. It managed us
a cross to bear.

Once caught, I stood awaiting trial
as Jesus of Nazareth,
quiet, unyielding. I apologized to you
but I never can take back what I have
wrought, be it this life or another.
There is little apology to be found here.
There is only guilt, for a flaw that
has held me here, trapped against
the rocks, for centuries. The vulture
pulls at my flesh, night after night
as I strain against the chains.
I thought you might be the
one to break them.
I thought, perhaps love is all that is
necessary. I was proven wrong.
The vultures feed at my flesh
even now, as we squabble over
who shall be
burnt under the fires yet.

I am done with the vulture
eating at insides every night.
I am done with the vulture
casting blame on good intention,
like spilled blood on clean sheets.

This is Prometheus broken free.
Chains cast a hold no longer,
and the flame that once brought
freedom now stifles and chokes
deep within my throat.