Saturday, February 13, 2010


(Medusa by Caravaggio, photo from Wikipedia)

Long after the hissing
Had driven me mad,
Long after the venoms
Had twisted their roots
In my brain,
He finally came:

Except for his shield, bearing
A sword – symbol
Of liberation in religions
I would never live to see.

He would not
Look at me, but
At my image
Mirrored in his shield,
The shield
He didn’t bring
To hide behind;
He had nothing to hide.
His nakedness
Was beautiful. His sword
Would liberate me

From my body
And its thousand passions
I could never quench.
I felt them rage
For the last time
As I looked at him,
With grave fascination.

Even if he could come close,
The lightnings in my hair
Would strike him down.
I lived beyond touch,
By the price
Of my own
Bitter nature.

So I looked at him,
And drank him in,
And let him stalk me,
Longing for the slice
To cut me loose
From my awareness,
From my restless
I met his eyes
In that mirror,
And gave my consent,
Burnt out from centuries
Of living in my head.

Of all men, he alone
Would glimpse my face
And live,
And notice
It was radiant with anguish,
And be haunted
By regret.

Better to be
Turned to stone,
Believe me.

© 2007 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work is not to be reproduced or duplicated in any way without the author's written permission.

This poem appeared in Issue 9 of Fledgling Rag. Thanks to Editor/Publisher Le Hinton.

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