Born in the radiant light of madness,
All the jagged edges sewn together,
I wept at how clever my madness was,
Gleefully releasing him from the tether.
He folded his burnished metallic wings.
Like a god strode toward the light,
A face as pale as hardened silver,
And eyes like red coals burning bright.
Behold O winged Prometheus, thy maker,
Then trembling I touched his face.
Then he knelt like a knight before me,
And I shuddered at his grace.
For in madness I made this paladin,
This creature formed of dreams,
My dreams of mortal purpose tossed,
This lector of my righteous schemes.
Still in the end he read not my prose,
Neither the verse nor the lines.
Instead he flew toward heaven's gate,
Then plunged to the lowest confines.
Thy maker weeps at the broken steel,
At wings he forged in light.
Beneath the stars long dead he grieves,
then stumbles off into the ebony of night.