Salvaging the wick
Fire is inspiring, but it burns.
Prometheus didn’t steal the torch for us to singe, but to share the burden of light.
He learned the curse of fire from the Heavens first hand,
stars illuminate the sky, brilliance accumulated after lightyears of consuming fusion,
splintering their threshold,
melting the hinges,
until they are unable to close the door,
smoldering, turned over and over in the current of the forges,
worked down until they suffocate from the weight of their pyre
closing their kohl seamed eyes to dream of constellations,
gravity of the grave sinking into the blackhole,
snuffing another candle at the tomb,
the night a little darker by a degree.
Fire is inspiring, but it burns.
Ache is not the same as yearn.
Prometheus didn’t steal the torch for us to singe,
but to shed some light on the visage of your neighbor
know their face
and how their wrinkles crease when they can’t bear the weight,
those who struggle with finding things in the dark,
the women who worry over a strained word,
the men who are brave because they must be,
and the boys who are worried that they won’t be.
Pass your torch to those who have empty hands,
mind those who hide their burns to relieve their burden
let Prometheus watch the stars fragment from his mountaintop
as humans divine what the gods made
and use it as best as they can,
carefully,
aware of the temptation of burning candles at both ends.