Make your own nature, not the advice of others, your guide in life.”

                                                                                    – The Oracle at Delphi


 O! many-tinted herald of the days, and blacker nights!
Where burns the ancient fires of sightless seer? where glimmers light
like every god-touched drip–the bitter’d honey from your lips?
Where can a man seek solace from his course—his wearied course—
or confirmation that his deeds are done?  despite dark horse
that stamped and drew the dirt and dust to fly before your scripts?
Despite the consternation in the mystery of the wight?

I’ve seen the store-front resting place, cathedra for the lost
and searching empires of the West—the way your violet cost
adorns these lesser waystones to excess—the merchant hope
of lesser quests, of hidebound knights and queens’ duress.
Who gathers woolen pelts? who wakes the whispering night? Much less,
who weaves the tears of Ajax with the peace of broader scope?
Who breathes the breath enflamed by summer stars and boundaries crossed?


Without the Oracle blessing, petals fall to wayward feet
and render voiceless prattle to the sound of soft entreat.
We are the chaff beneath the pestle, broken vessels in
retreat—the  lovelorn remnants, splayed on altars, clutching dead
and dying embers with our blood.  Discharge Venetian red!
Bring back the scarlet of your voice before this mortal skin
forgets the weight of deity—drinks Pride–imbibes Defeat!