The Weaver’s Hubris (Arachne)
With nimble hands, she spins the colored thread,
A tapestry of gods and mortal sin;
No strand of silk or silver does she dread,
As wonders from her wooden loom begin.
She mocks the goddess with a steady hand,
And depicts the heavens in a flawed light;
The finest weaver in a weary land,
Who dares to challenge wisdom’s holy might.
But envy strikes with cold and sudden grace,
The masterpiece is torn to ragged lace;
Her many limbs now seek a darker space,
With shifting eyes upon a hairy face.
Forever bound to spin a dusty snare,
She hangs within the silence of the air.
The Cursed Gaze (Medusa)
Within the shadows of a crumbling hall,
Where serpents hiss and coil around her brow;
No mirror hangs upon the stony wall,
To show the monster she has become now.
Once golden hair is replaced by the sting,
Of emerald scales and venom-dripping fangs;
A bitter gift that ancient terrors bring,
While in her chest a frozen heavy hangs.
A warrior treads upon the cracked floor,
With polished shield to catch a killer’s sight;
He does not look behind the heavy door,
But strikes a blow within the dying light.
The stone-cold statues watch the hero flee,
From eyes that never more the sun shall see.
No comments:
Post a Comment