Prometheus Pardoned

My foot fell through the hallowed ground

(I’m not a ‘man-you-find’—what then?

I’m a ‘man-you-take’, and in a

‘Persephone Embrace’). Pray, tell

Me now, who would ask Atlas, “Can

You lay your burden down; take off

Humanity—to not wear our

Toil like a crown?” (I’m a ‘giant’

Whose steps trek the moonscape bending

Of the proscenium spanning

A limelit town; whose own reckless

Footing leaves twin bridges to burn

The gall of every forger

Down. I thump across the pages

Saint Andrew jumped to turn, his sword

A cross of words sworn once unbound).

Are you Pro-‘Me’, or just the ‘Us’?

Pardon the floral sacrilege

A Pantheon between legs must

Seem—press our wax into a sound

If ‘it’s hotter, man’ to sell south

The cotton which darts in and out

Of my bourgeois mouth. (My demons

Begotten are gettin’ it, now…).