Comments and critiques always welcome, as are suggestions for a title. :)
The days of Delphi are long gone, lost
In a sea of papers and Plutarch
Ephemeral as the pneuma rising from the rift
Cleft in the earth over which I crouched
Clutching a spray of laurel, a scarlet stola
(stolen from my cousin at Cumae)
Draped over my head, covering my closed eyes.
Eating my mortality, that veil left nothing but the mouth
I was reduced to cracked, portentous lips,
Prophecy dripping from them like honeyed wine
Or a cup of hemlock
Chased with rue.
These days I live my own life,
Far from the temples, far from my sisters.
Penny-ante seers are a dime a dozen,
and such kings as may be found
would never undertake a pilgrimage to see me
in my newest cave: a small apartment in a very large town.
I've forgotten more than they'd ever think to ask, but
no-one really wants to know the future now.
All they desire is facile comfort
And the assurance of an easy victory.
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