Upon a thrusting penicle,
against a field of stars,
winds are swords of ice
numbing ancient scars.
Here--wearing manicles
that dispise ambition,
bearing eternal chains
for his heart's treason--

lay an artist without dreams,
he who molded common clay
into the creature Man
before love took him astray.
He stole a piece of sun
a celestial element,
from jealous gods with
vengeance most adamant.

So a roc on thunderous wings
finds him easy prey,
Tearing bloody chunks out
for his meal each day.
No one risks compassion
for a Titan most unwise;
In graditude he's left to bleed
across the evening sky.