Our twentieth poem a day, from this prompt.
The Emperor Awaits the Word
Denied the orb or diadem, before
The temple, shuddering, upon his knees
The newly hailed and naked emperor
Is asking please.
The Sibyl, with her books and milk-white eyes
That see what the haruspices but seek—
The daggers and the wonders and the cries—
Stares blankly past the begging man. “Advise
Me, speaker of the speakers of the wise!”
The Sibyl smiles and does not speak.
From past the veil, the final mystery
Looks out upon his supplicant, at last
Permitted to the thirty-third degree,
Weak from the fast,
Praying his prayers, and staggering in fear
Towards his secret tauroctonic lord.
The supplicant can sense the presence near
And strains, so he is trembling, to hear
The answer to the now and to the here.
But Mithras does not say a word.
I weeping in my rocky road alone
Wait by the phone.