Fate's return letter to a shackled Titan

To Prometheus,

Bound by light never struck;
I saw him purged under men’s entrails and covering their eyes,
Solemn praying for the luck of spies and blinding thieves. He spoke like this:

Though I can see beauty in all things, in her fingertips, latching Pandora’s box;
I wish not to disturb the flame.
Though I can see him wrapped in tattered blue hanging a noose, knot under rope, rope rung through knot; I will not hold the stool for his sorrows but only watch,
As his legs dangle and dance to the song of regrets.
Her in yellow, yes her, I refuse to give her the colors red or blue because she has forgot;
I wish only she lay in a haze,
Stranded but by the black born death of boredom,
The color of yellow is feverishly hot.
And to all of Men, those who struggle and cry out,
Lining their ribs with reason why their soul is to ascend--
For they say their strife is enough.
Men or women know NOT what pain truly is,
or love for they are the same.
They battle and hang their lips like brutes, slewing all in their minds that are the difference.
For her, for him, for all who sit in a bed late at night, smashing symbols to blight away loneliness: your suffering does not suffice.
There is no bridge leading to the feeling you wish.
The path is not covered in Iridescent blue light or pink madness under a stranger’s eye.
Your suffering does not suffice.
For who are you but pain and suffering; a tunnel veined with gold ore seeking happiness?
All your footsteps led you ‘round in circles, not to what you truly desire.
You, sitting there now, you wish pain and strife upon yourself under warm moons and milky skies--for it is enough.
But me? I’ll be anything but myself. For I must sit and watch it all.
I only wish the ocean to turn black and catch a flame a day sooner,
I’ll be anything but myself.

And Fate folded the paper and stamped it with an infinity. He handed it to Hermes, the crafty messenger. 

-- Christopher M., Adult