Perseus without a shield

Like Medusa you look at me.

Changable eyes of every shade of grey

Turn from cynical self-deprecation

To cutting steel, glittering a warning.

 

And like Perseus without a shield

I feel myself grow brittle,

Cracks creeping up my spine,

Branching out across my back.

 

Almost an afterthought,

That polished shield.

I see my own grey abstractions there,

The long shadow I can cast.

 

Now I feel you close behind me,

Your snakes hissing in my ear.

I slowly raise my eyes to yours –

You see yourself in mine.

 

And slowly your bent head

Settles on my shoulder.

Like golden ornaments your snakes

Curl around my hand in your hair…

 

February 2019, copyright jsmorgane

 

 

 

Peeta: to the Capitol

Scared, I’m scared.
So scared I cry and
Do not care the world
Is witness to my tears.

She. Sterner than usual, perhaps.
No tears, of course, no signs of weakness.
As if she’d always planned to take
Her sister’s place and make the battle hers.
Protecting her own like the shy creature of the forest
She has always seemed to me,
Fierce in defence. Invincible.

Now they are trying to take her down.
Take her out. The girl who sang.
Sang a song so clear and true
Only a mountain might crush that voice.
But the rocks did fall, and heavily,
On her family’s life, burying her smile
With her father deep down underground.

She keeps to herself, self-contained,
Thoughts turned inside, saving her strength
For… later, while I go to pieces because
I don’t stand a chance to win this thing.
But she can win. Her instincts sharpened by
Solitude, she’ll make it through, she knows
The wilderness on the forbidden side of the fence,
And – I think – the other kind as well.

No, I will not go down quietly.
I’ll help as best I can,
I’ll help her win.
She will not notice –
She’s never noticed me.
I’ll give her the last of
What I have of time
To lengthen hers.
For her I could be strong,
I might for her,
I will for her.

I’ll step in where she …
Has never needed to excel.
Where I can speak for her,
Can smile for her,
Give what is good in me
For her and maybe
She’ll forgive me then.
Forgive my fear, forgive the
Bread thrown in the mud,
When I might easily have
Stepped out in the rain and
Handed it to her.

I hand her now what little
I have left of my replaceable existence.
She’ll notice too late – I count on that –
That I’m the prey who seeks her out,
Comes willingly into her range,
And so fulfils its purpose.

© jsmorgane (April 2012)