Woe betides her, curse of serpents crown and gaze of stone, naga of ruinous magnetism, to flood the iris in a torrent beyond the ken of bearable horror
To know such cycles of solitude only the windswept falcon can bear, in sweep of colossal skies, in voice of the high basin, where gods palms collide in claps of thunder
But here, bereft of pinioned wing, fingers trace the former flesh, mute of song, deaf as carven marble
Medusa, by The Fire Elemental