The Leaving of Cassandra

She unravelled the world
thread by thread.

Every faithful stitch
becoming
another promise
broken.

Candles lowered
themselves
into the melt pool
of burnt memories -

So next time you think of her,
the flame will burn cleanly.

Wax dripping
in pale moon sweat
and Penelope’s tears.

Her perfume rising like
funeral smoke
from a ruined temple.

This is how truth
enters the world.

By the time love
arrives,
the future has already
grown roots in the ceiling.

Hope keeps polishing
its ardour
against her warnings,
trying to make prophecy
look like reflection.

But every vision
costs something.

Another night condemned
to close her eyes
and still see fire
inside the dark.

The gods did not curse
her with prophecy.

They cursed her
with knowing
only after leaving.

But the body learns
grief slowly.

First through silence,
then through the careful
touching of relics.

Dust gathers softly
where devotion once knelt,
like a tired witness
unwilling to intervene.

Even the mirrors
seemed exhausted
by reflection.

But beyond the glass,
the trees keep moving
faithlessly -

to remind us
how the world survives.