Prometheus Broken
~ I can not celebrate my little deaths anymore ~
I TIN NOT.
Or the grand lies I tell myself on pain-filled days the verdigris of which I’ve polished to an intense cherry with an alchemy of my own conjuring, or maybe grand theft of middle ages minutes snatched by the arm of creative imagination. Or thud into tragic mythologies of demi-gods and creatures of vengeance.
Where and when does it finish, this duty thrust upon me of a mistaken Prometheus whose innocence saw nothing to take, let alone share, yet gods presumed and considered me worthwhile of divine rage. What did I give away that was so priceless? And I commonly ask yourself if it coincides old eagle-deliverer of nondeath, refreshed each time by eternal life or a hatchling hastened into feather and form prepared to feast upon alizarin crimson of liver and bone.
There are days when despite just how much you try to muster up countenance or grab at a form of happiness– a full moon, one of millions gone and a glowing sky with kites endlessly circling around in a lazy vortex and laughter of children rising up like caramel, shapes of trees grown by dead hands, trees which still flower and bear weary fruit, all this and so far more sits like tar in my lungs and I can not breathe.
The pain is way too much. This, my damaged life, nobody’s Kintsukuroi, burglarized clay fragments which can not be unbroken, and soldered with gold or pewter, or even gathered by a wanton hand to delicately rest in an awesome corner, and it just doesn’t amount to any algebra of peace.
It just can not.
Farida Haque