ANCESTOR

​

 

I don’t mind the sharp bite of the dark mirror, for there lies the gateway to the Pythian cave.

​

The oracle screeches

her voice

harshened by the thick smoke,

the noxious fumes that belch

from the guts of the pit she sits astride,

 

“Know Thyself!

To thine own self be true!”

​

I burn and choke with her.

I know her...

 

Oh Sister!

Where have you denied knowing your true self,

as you sit astride this world crack to bring words

veiled in riddles and drawn across time?

​

But today I sit with the Ancestor, his head bowed, shoulders hunched, his greatness drawn in.

 

He turns to me, smiling, and speaks,

“This too shall pass Sister. This too shall pass.”

​

© Anna West 2021

​

​