Medusa served in Athena’s name,  

A priestess pure, untouched by flame.  

Her curls, like silk, her gaze, the sea,  

A beauty both wild and heavenly.

To virgin vows, her heart was tied,  

"Be chaste from birth," the gods had cried.  

She walked in grace, devout and true,  

In sacred halls of marble hue.

But from the depths, Poseidon rose,  

A god with lust from head to toes.  

He watched, he reached with tidal might,  

She fled in fear, recalling right.

She ran to where the goddess stayed,  

But stumbled—there, her strength betrayed.  

He caught her near the temple gate,  

And left her cursed to bear his fate.

She wept beside the altar's flame,  

Her blood, her shame, the gods to blame.  

Athena came, her rage unbound,  

And cast a curse without a sound.

Her form then writhed, her hair grew wild,  

From curls to serpents, fierce and vile.  

Her gaze turned cold, her skin to stone,  

Her voice a hiss, no longer known.

Feared by all, yet wrongly damned,  

A victim silenced by divine hand.  

Still, through the myth, her truth persists—

 A symbol forged through ash and mist.

Then Perseus came, with mirrored blade,  

And ended what the gods had made.  

But her story, though buried deep,  

Still wakes in those who dare to weep.