By ffalgernon@yahoo.com
Date: 10 May 2000

Untitled

i’m nature’s own,
shedding tears of crimson.
but all they see are the
scales, the serpent locks
and last,
always last,
the face.

my sisters,
cold and forever living,
say i’m the most beautiful,
but in their eyes i see eternity
and in my eyes i see, they see…?

who am I?
to be cursed like this
to feel the pain of time
riding my shoulders
to the ground, trapped
in my garden amongst
my fail attempts at reaching for
something more
than me.

they run.
as well they should.
my siblings in time.
but they call me monster,
demon and some, quietly,
under their breaths, goddess.

fools.

i am met by fear
and if not fear, awe.
but never understanding.
to them i am what
i am, cursed, deservedly
though they hear only
one side.  his side.  her side.

(you with the owl eyes
where is the wisdom in your judgment?
and they call me monster.)

i remember.
the touch of eyes
the light which is a smile
shining on me like the sun
with a warmth
i now no longer
feel.

what was wrong
with wanting to be
admired, to be looked
on as beautiful, why
was it so wrong
that it was taken
from me?
where once every
glance brought
pleasure now
brings death.

i grow weary.
i grow old.
there is talk of
a hero
(the world is as
littered with them as
is my garden with
admirers who can never
leave, always stare
but never see).

a hero, Perseus, Theseus,
(who can keep track?)
seeking to make a name
by seeking me out.

i hear he is
beautiful.

and brings a mirror.

a mirror.

for me.

- September 27, 1996