My feet played the percussion of Medusa’s stairway

Young as they were.

 

That innocence was the manchild father of

    Adulthood innocence,

And I had neither.

 

As I looked at her I saw

Exotic snakes I never feared,

My sword in hand.

 

All the old myths have melted

  like snow on the street

Dripping water torture into the sewers.

 

Medusa is dead by her reflection,

But that only

  by my mirror.

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