The Medusa was sinking.
Water breached the hull roughly 200 ft from the shore.
It made quick work of swallowing the ship.
Wind and waves in unison assured a trench turned grave.
The wood moaned, it creaked in pain with every sway.
As panic rained on in a pounding monotonous hum
A mop of hair and wet heaving breath began to rise.
Inching closer to the puffs of cursed sky
before she even thought to hold her breath.
Her figure cut through the black sea.
She died a knife,
And offered her last thoughts
Not as prayer
but as condemning fact:
“I am the Medusa and the Medusa has always been me.”