The Cry of a Gorgon
If love and beauty be measured in mine eyes,
Speak not nor look deep into the mirrors
For horrors lurk in the windows of my soul
Would turn you to stone and death forevermore.
Then what doth beauty mean to a lady who is cursed?
Of scales, a forked tongue and a slithering hiss?
It is when lovers turn stone and roses to ash
That men's love turns cold and crumbles to dust.
To the mighty Olympians I wished to be saved,
Turn me into a flower or anything that is loved,
For in my heart I couldn't anymore dare carry
The curse of being feared, hated and lonely.
All in vain I prayed and prayed
With wet scaly cheeks by tears of self pity.
But even gods deny my simple plea,
For who would feel sympathy for a monster like me.
"Medusa," men speak of my name,
"the beauty who turns every man to stone."
For 'tis better to be hated than be loved,
If my love would bring death to thee
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