Up high, where only the eagle flies,
Prometheus draped, hung out in the sun, his skin leathering and dry.
He contested the might of Zeus, chancing lightning hotter than an iron maiden,
to bring forth the gift of fire to Earth’s latest creation.
Denied rest, the morning infringes,
ushering in a punishment that makes him revisit it.
To his liver, his flesh is torn,
dripping rich gold to his toes,
and then to the floor.
The talons hooked deep and contorted his insides,
mangling both his body and the kindness in his mind.
But every night, under the twilight sky,
the savagery unleashed upon him rewrote and became disguised,
thick, unscathed skin varnished his torso, refusing him to die.
The torment he faced did nothing to diminish his pride,
day by day and night by night,
facing the same taunting and horror, contrived,
his ember burns on, nursed by mankind.