Prometheus

Arising from the waters of self-pity To stand against a cold world Upon the edge, I am undone, and lost to light. From these bleak heights of my solitude Streams are the fingers of device, That plunge, fragmented; Babbling like zealous guides. How far they fall! Like dark looms That take the trackless night, And weave from it a frameless ebony; To burst, like kisses that bruise the skin, Recalling a tearful symmetry That irrigates a plain of desolate rememberings. Many thoughts that I have thus discarded, Cutting nerves with urgency, There inhabit a pool of sorrows, And lap against a solemn shore. Now remote, I pierce the fabric of my own creation, Wishing to fall and fail, and yet Electing, still, to strain against the precipice; Redressing, blow by blow, a mental violence.