He snatches the stars and he catches the moon,
And traps them inside of a looking-glass tomb.
He plows through the earth and he drinks up the sea:
He’s son to Prometheus, brother to me.
His words are of stone and his home is of sand,
Crumbling together on sturdiest land.
His hands are a cradle; his fingers, a cage
Confining his brothers inside for an age.
And he lasts through ages but numbers his days:
We may see the ground, but he sees his own grave.
In one breath he curses and pleads to be saved;
He doesn’t know why, but he prays anyway.
He rides off to war, but against his own parts:
He holds his sword backwards and aimed at his heart.
His helmet’s adorned with the sun’s stolen plumes:
He’s the son of Prometheus-also his doom.
And finally, when all the world’s his own,
He’ll call to be praised but he’ll find he’s alone.
This riddle’s a question: who can this man be—
This son of Prometheus, scion of Eve?
~Michael Danger Caskey