Kemar Cummings

Prometheus 

His mind is lost like floating cliffs of ice

While beneath his pen yawns a sheer abyss.

The crunch of ages makes his sacrifice

Of bleeding voices into flesh a bliss. 

Since writing seems padlocked in a hell of chains,

His fingers lock themselves into frozen links.

His eyes follow the black tip-toe of ink-stains

Down the page's edge, down the hand that slinks

Across the nights. Ellipses await the script

Inviting space to write its lyric humanity,

Although his mind is naked, starkly bare, stripped

By gods who sleep the sky's immortality.

These spirits prey, like vultures, on his tongue

(Circling sanity round his head) to acquire

The taste of his bony ambrosial song.

He spiced the wine of mortal words with fire.

{Kemar Cummings, kempoet@icloud.com}