Love's Tears by Hephaestus

Onto a weary sigh from a saddened glance down
Staring into remnants of the sun's being
Turning and bubbling between stoned walls.
My forge and I, we know all too well
What a pain it is to have nowhere to go

My soul, whose villains of life
have wrapped their thirsty hands around
pulling and squeezing it through the door
of my open chest into this unsightly world,
Falls from my breast into my legs and the
roots of my heart haven't the strength
to burrow those darkened corridors for life

With a hammer and anvil, what magic a man can work
But a fool he'd be to look up to me;
Why hand over an iron sword to a simple man
Letting him father your creation? For he will
learn to wield your power to his designation,
and in place of showers of appreciation,
will be a blind-eyed man ravenous for glorification.
Because No one thanks their creator
No one enters this world thanking Gaia
for her nourishment, or Helios for his warmth;
So crafter, do not think they,
As they reach the height of their power
proclaiming themselves worthy of a god,
in their pathetic vanity
will not bind you to their might,
ridicule your unruly sight, seduce your lover by night,
squeeze and squeeze your soul feeling no contrite
to let it sigh its last goodnight -
No crafter! Do not let them conspire with your power!

But this power...
Torn between envy and self-pity, I've fallen
below the fabric of the universe's beauty
and beneath it, I can see the infinities of possibility
that make up my supposed ingenuity.
Fall long enough to come meet me and
You will see - yes it is our souls that fuel our tools
Turning us simple craftsmen into the gate watchmen
As we unlock the makings of life's magnificent creations
But these keys handed to us were from the master riddler herself
Whose creations were held in the garden long before the dawn of reason

Do you understand now?
The universe gives away beauty and we stain
It with tormented desire and hostility
I wish a tide would wash it all away, but
you humans seduce me with a sense of power

It's only the crafters who cry at night
The foundation beneath us never cracks
And it's only the crafters who scrutinize
To unfold the veil and see things properly
It's the crafters who live life harmoniously
and humbly know there is no beauty.
It was all just an illusion of rock and dirt
that sparkled to pander your eyes

What is beautiful, Hephaestus?
Is it indeed, as we have imagined?! This idea
Of a grand scheme that was given to amuse our little souls
And while we eat at each other's flesh and blood
The dogs are starving for more, and
I give them tools to satisfy their lures
But what is it I do?

Only the true crafter cries at night
And works tirelessly to disarm his worst fear:
The golden creation remains forever elusive