Prometheus Bound

The world is always such strange colors when your heart is broke. The sky is always mockingly blue. The sun is always diamond white. And little kids always wave, and bad radio stations always play good songs, and strange men always come up to you to ask you about your laptop and invite you to fancy parties, and professors always move your quizzes to next week. And a gloomy-looking homeless guy in his twenties with braids in his hair asks you for a hug and you always give it and he tells you he needed that more than anything in the whole wide world and you tell him you know exactly what he means and he says you just did him the biggest service and he's facelit and you shake your head and say of course and you hope he feels better and he says you have no idea.

And you've never seen so much eternal youth and shoulderlightness circumscribing the grocery store, and you know it's not just light refracting on the clouds in your eyes because when you scan the faces you still see that most souls are enslaved...

And you know that you are not. That once again, though you'd rather not, you can sail on rushing rivers made of rage and sleep on stormclouds in your eyes and drink from the ocean of sadness in your heart and scream into the cave, at the unhearing shadows on the wall because Prometheus brought down the fire and now he's in chains because you were never meant to see that the world is such strange colors and that your heart can break like the clouds, can break like the clouds before the diamond white sun comes up through them and shatters the glass into prisms of color, and the leaves weep their last silent teardrops from the shuddering, shimmering, rainblack branches.