Stolen Fire (Falling From a Star)

          For those surviving the fire,
                    powerless as Prometheus pyrolized—


     Are you pro-Me, or just the Us?
Guilt feasts only on the liver of cowards.
     This meat, however, it never
was your flesh, former lover, to even have


     or devour. Yet, injusticed, in
a postured gesture of poor faith restored to
     fullness of vigour, and renewed
strength, I offer pieces our vulture, no more


     impressed by either of us, pours
his breath on. Unquestionably suggestive,
     relentless as another myth
some mononymous antihero squanders


     their enervating legacy
perpetuating, this energy blows. It’s
     effusive, how, so much like those
whose theft of flame heat and anguish befell, we


     now tell those who’ll listen that hell’s
a prison without walls. And, persistent, cost
     repays no one at all, always
comes across as punishment for pissing off


     gods by wanting to become them
ourselves. And, worsening, words, conditional
     on forming sentences your mouth
spits, our circumstances echoes eclipse. Get


     overshadowed by rumours our
vulture’s wings uplift. Downwind of Olympus,
     carried on the lips of zephyrs,
even the winds know which prince not to get with.