What makes you stick to the past?
Is it an emotion
That clings onto you like an annoying song?
Anything you try
It can’t get out of your head.
All the same tune.
You add a little
To change the rhythm
Give it a kick with a hum,
Swinging it to diverge.
With a daring glance,
Repression will dance back to you.
It will flirt with your eyes,
Turning them color blind.
All you will see is black and white,
Until glands turn to the light.
Medusa’s on the hunt
For those already made of stone.
Through them, will she gain her power.
They cannot escape her fierce stare,
For their deepest fears are beyond repair.
Those brave enough to grab
Strands of memory by the hand,
Rejoice repetitive songs with a jiggle.
Like worms they wiggle out of
The bundle of silk,
Releasing any adjustment to the dark.
The newborns eye her serpent touch,
Rising far above her bewitching magic.
In their wings,
A splash of green.
Their delicate spread,
Like fine designs of origami.
Their sticky coat serving as an armor,
Shining healing spectrums of protection,
With precious hints of emerald.
If this poem had a voice, this is what it would sing…