A Warning to Prometheus

Poetry

Turn away your eyes from her. She wears a mask. She is not beautiful nor compelling.

Pull away the cover and underneath are bones in the bottom of the coffer only bones yellow and cracked.

Look at the remains. Not stolen fire nor tricks will save you.

It is the anger of the gods.

Bring the box to your lips, taste hope before lifting the veil from the eyes of Justice.

She will sentence you blindly, and there are agonies ahead through years you wish erased.

After emancipation, the chain on your ankle clamors as you walk down the street in Armani and Cartier.

It reminds you of what is lost.

Driven forward through time relentless, with the precision of an eagle’s beak.