The New Prometheus

Some mornings when I wake up
I think that I might devour the sky, one piece of azure at a time

In mornings, there is agelessness,
the head of the sky bending blue lips close enough to whisper

or kiss like fathers do.
I know only the language of stones and the shapes of life they hold;

clay would be too simple,
it would be too easy to see myself in this dewy earth that begs for form

and one like I is all
that this Earth can easily bear; so I shall find them in stone

and I will not steal for them
but feed them from my lips the words of sky and star and deepest, darkest blue

until they know, until they burn. Until they burst.

[Alexandra Seidel writes poems and stories about things that are … real. Kinda. Her work can be found at places like Lackington’s, Strange Horizons, Mythic Delirium, and others. If you are so inclined you can follow Alexa on Twitter (@Alexa_Seidel) or read her blog: http://tigerinthematchstickbox.blogspot.com.]

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