'The Sibyl, with frenzied mouth
uttering things not to be laughed at,
unadorned and unperfumed, yet
reaches to a thousand years with her
voice by aid of the god.'  (Heraclitus, fragment 12)

She curves into touches like neurosis
beyond the threshold of insanity
breeding desire into a lovely oddity

She mends the lie in facades to
empty them into our secrecy

With a banshee's throat
she splinters time's agonies
into the likeness of what
we ordered and
brings solitude to morning's arms.

She is of Sibyls.

Bold women who once dreamt
in ambiguous shadows and
lucent prophecies.