The blindness in stones.
The cold, crumbling stones.
Rugged edges,
Almost jagged,
Scratching my palms,
Meeting abruptly
With smooth,
Round,
Like river stones –
Soft, silky,
Subtle, as if they were not there at all.
They are quiet.
Unmoving –
Although, I imagine their delicacies:
The way they stood,
Their fragile motions,
The nimble-ness
in the motion of their wrists,
their ankles,
their knees,
their fingers,
the roll of their necks
and twists of their hips
as they bent, and turned, and contorted
The warmth they must have had.
I feel them.
Their faces distorted
Forever frozen
Screaming
Cursing.
Do you not mind?
Mind?
The cold stones,
Their somber and angry faces …
Their harshness?
I do not.
They were harsh,
And cruel,
Vicious to you.
You are precious,
Wonderous.
Your hands are soft and light,
Cold.
They are calming.
And your stones …
They will be forever cursed
To be truly blind,
Unmoving,
Unfeeling,
Selfish,
Crazed by their own ambitions.
You ask me if I mind …
I do not.
I do not see them.
That is my curse.
I do not see them.
As I do not see you
The pain that they bring,
The one I love.
*I am blind.
I wanted to envision a softer side to the harsh myth that is Medusa. Something warm and precious - like a blind lover. I hope you enjoy (:
© Shane Leigh
