S. E. Johnson
How long he lay in static slumber,
So long forgotten by the years,
Twas now he arose from coils of chaos
And breached his tomb with imagined tears.
Arising from his tragic fallen exile,
His wings spread out to feel the sun,
His red eyes glowed like burning embers,
With legs poised on the block to run.
Exhilaration forged the primal fire,
He soared beneath the pallid sky,
The creators watched his second coming,
As o'er the earth bound he would fly.
They knew his kind had long been dormant,
'Neath the slag of war born malice,
He bore the stuff of glories dreams,
As he strode into mans utopian palace.
With laurels they adorned this hero,
They praised this shining knight of yore,
With patience they renewed their kinship,
And bonded closer than before.
Pronounced they he, is this not an angel,
Then lauded him with immortal stature,
His kind now flourished anon thereafter,
Filling mens souls with thoughts of rapture.
Prometheus was now, companion,
He reached the stars with humanity in tow,
They planted worlds outside the wormholes,
Until the day that men would finally go.
O' Prometheus returning as you did,
What passion planted you in hearts of men,
Then flourished like the ancient trees,
When such a time should come again.