Outcry Over Modesty
Prometheus sits alone and considers,
by Nick Hilton
His wandering eyes,
And the flickering flames,
What would it give just to steal?
Or be given?
To take without mercy,
The joys of disaster,
The toys of destruction,
The gift of the gods unto man,
And man alone as the source.
Why is it so?
Why do you trouble for good,
When such harshness befalls you?
The vanity of sincerity,
The cause of the falsehood,
That captures your waking breath,
And leads you into the interminable mire
The mire of solitude.
It is not for revenge or defeat,
Not for the turn of the key in the lock,
But for the mistakes,
That slip silently into place
And work with amorous indecision,
Against the plaintiff labourer,
To marshall the root of such pain,
Is at once both commendable,
The heart of man lies,
Lies in the depth of vision,
And the wisdom of unfamiliarity,
The turbulence of the tempest,
And the wild vacuum of the soul,
But not ethereal.
So created by man are they,
That even Prometheus,
Forgotten by his brothers,
It's rent apart by the very nature,
Of what he thought were beyond the grasp,
Of man's fleshy grip,
The concept of which,
Defeated even a god,
A god above man,
And so unworldly that eventual,
Poor Prometheus looks up,
And sees that far above his fallen Olympus,
The hosts of heaven smile down,
With the faces of men.