Like Alexander and Pompey before me,
I go searching for a guide.
The stones of Delphi sits silent as I am forced to face the future,
Delphi opens wide her ancient chasm of pythian vapors,
she deafens me with her silence.
I hear only the drop of a tear in which holds my reflection.
Would Alexander be as calm, I think not.
No woman stands before me for my Neronian revenge.
In the ruins of Apollo’s dragon, its stony broken teeth raised to the sky.
Oh, Delphi how you sit silent!
I gather the strings of fate up into my hands.
Oh, how way leads onto way.
And I pull tighter on the meridians attached to my own ends.
Searching for my own Ipseity.