Nightmare of the Oracle

A poem

Photo by Artem Maltsev on Unsplash

The marble cracked beneath my feet,
a chasm swallowing breath, dark
and slick with ancient whispers.
I am the vessel they chose,
shadows pooling in my eyes —
sight that cuts deeper than skin,
vision sharper than the gods’ cruelty.

They called me the prophetess,
but I see only death in the cradle,
heroes turned to dust before their glory,
cities burning before the dawn.
My voice echoes in the hollow halls,
words twisted, tangled in the threads
of fate, a loom I cannot touch.

Each night, the nightmares thread
through my veins, serpents coiling,
hissing truths no one dares to hear.
I hold their secrets like venom,
bitter on the tongue, spilling
from lips cracked with silence.

You will not know me in daylight,
when the sun bleaches my thoughts
clean of prophecy, a blank slate
awaiting the next curse to etch itself
into my bones. But in the dark,
when the world drowns in its own
blood, I will rise —
a shadow against the pyre.

Remember me not for the truths
I buried, but for the lies I screamed
into the night, hoping the gods
would hear and falter,
just once, at the sound
of my broken voice.

© Ani Eldritch, 2024.