ê° they herald her with a crown made from the irises of seers who's eyes were dipped in shimmering dust from the sun's core. those same eyes that looked past the thin films sewn into the future, eyes that witnessed the monochrome threads all pooling to the same charred destination. all paths lead to Rome, was the elegy left by their ghosts chained to this universe who's surface was stamped by the the gods silent wrath. ê±
ê° Apollo himself promised her that he'd make her immortal - like him. that whatever tragedies the god of time held in store for her, she'd see the burned insignia of the future that the ominous wind carried back to her, her personal raven disguised as an angelic dove. the gods were cruel, jealous beings, their natures woven into the fabric of the cosmos and she should've known better than to trust them. putting her faith in deity's whose golden ichor had dried in their veins and rusted their insides. ê±
ê° she was a modern-day Pythia, her shrine the amalgam of tears and blood, her consultants were not kings and queens whose throne was built by Hephaestus and their lips were painted by Loki, but humans who nestled in the underbelly of this world. skin fragmented yet sewn together by coke cans and cigarette butts. her drug was the gods serpent tongues dipped in rich lies, carving and chipping away at her past and present till she was only her future, still to be and living on the edges of reality. ê±
ê° the gods sit in their crumbling pantheon, ambrosia sticking to their insides and clogging their throats yet their crazed laughter still rings through. the corners of their mouths are dry with the blood of Eve that has decorated their faces for centuries. you're only immortal till you die until then, feast on the wine in my veins and the bread of my body quickly, lest it turns to acid and burns your insides, cracking you in half, showing your rotten machinery not even Asclepius can mend. ê±