Pythia Poem by Chris Zachariou

I'm in love with Pythia—
an angry storm of a raging angst.
Each night, she smokes roll-ups
floating on the crest of a far horizon.

A sweet mist rises from her cigarette—
it is the mist of her struggling chastity.
Intoxicated, I lift her seven veils
and find all my familiar demons
dwelling in her tarnished mind.

Pythia is now mine, mine all mine.
I'm obsessed with lust and for such
an act of daring, those who guard
her purity have banished me beyond
the city limits.

In a smoked-filled salty cave
I lay crimson flowers on her breasts
and the old judge is envious— for a year
he has craved her night of honour.

We embrace in the swan song of her
waning virtue and for hours I taste
the urgent darkness of her mind— I am
a marauder plundering her chaos of youth.

Pythia, a priestess of illicit passions
surrenders to my unhampered lusts
and the timid oaths of her ebbing modesty
hide in vain in her blue and white lace.

I'm consumed by a frantic hunger
for this child of untethered frenzy.
We are both depraved, made of clay and sin—
deviant misfits sheltering in the same bell jar.