In the trees branches I was held,
But a red fear came upon me:
What would they think? What was I to them?
Will they see Prometheus come to steal their fire?
For truly these men believe they are gods.
For a moment here, I am free.

The dusty tome is not free,
Forever in a locked box held.
A box that has been locked by the gods.
It is like me.
A hole in the box lets the book see out and its gaze is like fire,
Lets the book see the library -- it sees them.

It has hope that it will one day be like them.
Free.
That its worlds will be read by men and set their minds on fire.
The men, held
In their minds -- unlike me --
As gods.

Tell me how to be, oh gods,
No longer silent like the locked books -- not at all like them --
Whisper my secret to me.
Tell me how to step beyond and be free,
No longer held,
So I can make men feel their hearts on fire.

I throw in the roaring heat of the fire
What I have made and worn to fool the gods.
I will not be held!
Not like them.
I will be free.
No longer just a pretty mask, but simply me.

Pulsing, pounding, thrumming, humming is me.
I feel the fire.
I feel free.
A part of this spidery web spun by the gods.
Connected with them.
Securely held.

Me? I surely need the gods.
I need the fire that belongs with them, to them.
A bound up book now free, upon the sturdy wood shelves, held.