I am Pythia, Hear My Cries
Perched over a crack in the Earth
Fate weaves its threads—a process slow yet delicate
My hands tremble again, my thoughts tangle up
Preparing me for the hazy spiral
A rumble in my stomach
A gurgling pit between my eyes
Voices trapped beneath the ground
Or trapped in the heavens, I cannot tell
Desperate to get themselves heard
Final pleas echo all around me
Within me, outside me
Surrounding me
Surrendering to me
Is my flesh worthy of all the praise
All that praise I am getting
Or am I a mere vessel?
Tell me now, wolf-born
Is this your way of whispering
Sweet nothings to your favorite subject
You keep me shackled
Knowing the screams have been deafening
The fumes fill my lungs
What is more clouded;
My vision or my sanity?
Is this you, speaking through me
Or am I on an altar,
An altar I long dreaded
I would end up on?
Are these golden antlers,
The ones you make me wear,
The ones you made a part of me,
Are they a sign of my devotion to you?
Or a sign of my flesh and mind
Both are an offering to you
Tell me now, not in riddles for once
Do I hum tales from the future?
Or am I a tongueless puppet
A figure alerting destruction
A false hope ambassador
Tell me who I am
Lost and convulsing in this haze
I can no longer think
Daphodile is a sociology and political science student and full-time overthinker. Lover of things beautiful and macabre, tragic and funny.
Featured image by Mikhail on Unsplash.
