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A Glance at Medusa MAG
March 24, 2021
His eyes stuck
Glued,
Tied down,
Pinned,
His hands feel cold as they become frozen
Cement starts rippling through his veins
Cold,
Gray,
Stiff,
His shoulders lock into place
His hair begins to dust away
His stomach holding on with its last will
He sees black as his vision goes dark
As the darkness becomes blindness.
As his heart pumps its last round of blood.Her grainy voice howls while her snakes
hiss,
Her laughter is the last sound he can hear,
As he is now a stone statue.
© Kimber E., Yorktown, VA
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One day, I was in my Creative Writing class when our poetry unit was introduced. I love writing, but it comes in a rare form. Whenever I feel like writing, I write. If im forced to write, it doesn't come out as natural as I would like. For this poem, I felt an utter sense to write, so I did and this poem was the final result. After a few revisions were made, I was highly pleased with my work! Im not sure where in my soul this type of mythological writing came from, but it certainly was a good choice for my liking.