never so beautiful as the eagle that swoops down to consume my liver each dawn

never so poignant as the chains that bind me to this stone made from unreturned affection

a modern day prometheus, mute fool with too much emotion not enough sense to cease being

if only the eagle would feast upon my foolish flapping tongue with saccharine odes to love

to tear the still beating heart from the cage of ribs to soar down its gullet and end the aching