prometheus was literally ‘forethought’, while his brother, epimetheus was ‘afterthought’. as you may recall, prometheus brought fire to the world and for it, was punished by being chained to a mountain where vultures would forever peck and pull his intestines.
read on for the piece, and pardon the mixing of myth but believe me – it fits.
darting into corners
gasping with delight
when found, the shadow
it seems all my life
i have labored
to save the terminally
self-destructive
it is, of course, futile
i begin to realize it
my own hands, long since
burned by the friction
of tugging at
the heedless
they who are enraptured
by disaster’s call
sitting here, once again
with bleeding hands
with bleeding heart
i am no longer angry
with the self-destructive
rather, with myself
for continuing to believe
it possible
to save those who wish
only to be tied
to agony and despair
but i begin to realize
my own penchant
for such things
called
by their pained callings
when i should
so well by now know
how their shrieks of pain
are but their delight
i should as well know
my own need is impossible
to help, to tend, to heal
there is no healing
a soul wound
there is no soothing
that which only smiles
when it is set to razor
panting upon the roadside
once more witness as
the car swerves
the shriek arrives
the crunch of bone and spray
too late to do more than watch
another kill in progress
three for one, it seems
i’m sure somewhere, kali smiles
such devotion, such loyalty
i do not yet understand how
it is easy to embrace pain and
difficult to embrace its relief
but i accept this is so,
for too many times does it happen
they always thank me, you know
they always say thank you
so sincerely
as if, somehow, they actually know
it is
the worst possible thing to say
when you’re giving yourself
to the pit, to the pain,
what is a ‘thank you’
but a sneer of triumph
at the very last, the fates
they mock us all in these ways
you, for your ignoble sacrifice
me, for daring to care when
all the world and the fates themselves
will but punish me for the doing
but i forget, you adore the pain
wiping the blacktop from my palms,
pushing myself up from the ground
leave you
with all your prometheus fantasy
for the vulture you most desire
may your innards be enough
to spare those who think to rely upon you
i was, of course, a fool
to ever be among that number