If I Seduced Prometheus

 

I'd suck the air from his kiss,
the heat from his kiln, leave him
stone-headed deafness in false ecstasy.

I'd rip my face off and reform the underlying clay
into the visage of daimona Aletheia,
desolate in her guardianship.

I'd bake in the remaining flames, those last echoes
of lies I told myself, clawing past wastelands
in search of purity

though I have spat in every well,
unwilling to believe in starred reflections
within.

I'd leave tears and ash —
volcanic streaks warning no one.