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Prometheus Bound
by Mikal Trimm

Godlike, shackled, cursed to live
In constant torment for his sins:
Pity, empathy, and love
For primitives — the race of Man.

Ripped and torn, an eagle's feast,
He writhed against Caucasus' rocks.
Day brought claws and sharpened beak
And Night healed all. No blessing, that.

Pain, exquisite pain, his life,
Without surcease, eternal Hell.
Huddled up against the stone
His strength, now fettered, fading, gone.

Why? The question came at times,
Why must I suffer? Was I wrong?
Charity and empathy,
No sins! What sort of sins are these?

Dying, dying every day,
He found a quiet, twilight time —
Cold and shivering in his chains,
The answer came each soul-dark night.

Calm, an overwhelming calm,
As evening quelled the sunchurned skies —
Rest, now. Do it all for hope.
You do it for the sake of Man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


©2007 Helix. No content may be used without permission.       This issue published April 1, 2007