Tired Tiresias

Ok, so before I get this one up, just wanna let you guys know, this is only kind of a part of the "Tired Tyler " series. I decided to go with a different, more classical point of view, that of the blind prophet Tiresias. Enjoy.


Tired Tiresias
can't see why
he stays stewing
in the black-brewed broth,
opaque as cloth
draped with elegant weight
over eyes, why
only his own fate
seems sealed
beneath barrows unperceived
but by tiny, clawed things,
where he kindles
the secondary light of second sight
shed on the darkling inner-shell
of his soft head, why
when terror of dawn, of
loam-packed lips open
to an impatient sky, he
can't scuttle away
on spindly spider-legs
into the obliterating heat
and squeeze
of wheezing earthen kilns,
to be magma-lapped and wrapped
in molten coils, but
he can't leave the words
behind, alone, and unloved
in the shallow hues of prophecy;
the shadow blues of future things
keep him rooted, blind, and strange;
banal and deranged.