by Deborah Svatos
I am the oracle of the damned,
resplendent in post-traumatic purple velvet,
tattoos embedded in violet ink across my wrists,
musing to you that your fate is to lose once again,
feeling your anguish,
hearing your cries,
offering you my jaded advice
in the hopes that you’ll fight against what ails you.
It’s the life of the lonely,
my days of speaking to the lost souls
who wake in this Tartarus disguised as Earth,
but someone has to break the news
even if it shatters the calm.
Someone has to give fair warning
if the gods seek to withhold
and rally the wronged
against the multitude of injustices.
I spend my days in the company of ghosts,
their forms tangible as smoke,
breathing in the bitter haze
fueling their resentment,
strengthening my own.
When the world spins a hair too quickly
on its frantic carousel of
thrill seekers and wayward wanderers,
I’m there in the wings to gather
those who have been displaced
and we form our own army against the gods.
Pen at the ready, I am their scribe,
my chronicle the story of all the wrong
ever to be wrought upon the damned.