The Modern Prometheus

To my frozen jaw, his hands reached,

they molded from clay that which has killed me,

But it is too cold for blood to run,

and for what purpose would it?

And to what end, and by what means?

For that which he does not mold

cannot take form-

He is the creator,

and his hands the carpenter's compass.

And as I lie before him now,

like a stone sculpture from the Tripoli of old,

I cannot help but elate in the life he has given,

he and his mistress whom we call the mind.

For had he not come to me this day,

(or I, come to him)

Then I shan't have discovered

this so fleeting thing called life-

in any form, save for that shaded box

in which one sits before creation.