I sought the Sibyl haunted
By the ghosts of those who had passed before me.
In their steps
My bare feet pressed
Through half remembered lines from school.
Her voice is all that remains,
Jar long discarded,
Oak leaves cast into the wind.
Still she would not die.
Boredom consumes her,
With no more books to burn.
Holiday Rep guiding the unwashed rabble
Who hang at her door
(and still she would not die)
"Avernus?" she sighed.
"You know the routine."
And the wind blew sand into my eyes.