Tag: MythInspired

Greek, Poetry

Medusa

The Royal Octopus

I once was a maiden, quiet and sweet,
With sunlight that danced at my mortal feet.
A girl of the earth, no goddess, no throne,
But beauty can curse when the gods make it known.

The sea god approached with a predator’s eye,
And none heard my pleading, or answered my cry.
Athena looked on with a heart turned to stone,
And punished the victim for crimes not her own.

She coiled my hair into serpents that hissed,
She turned every gaze to a fatal mist.
Banished, I wandered to caverns of shade,
And there in the darkness, my refuge was made.

My sisters stood firm, unbroken, unbowed,
They guarded my silence, they cursed the proud.
Their love was a beacon, a spark in my night,
Yet whispers of ‘monster’ soon shadowed that light.

Perseus came with a coward’s disguise,
With gifts from the gods and fear in his eyes.
He struck while I slumbered, no honour, no word,
And over my body, the heavens stirred.

They called him a hero, they praised him with song,
Yet none saw the evil, or named it as wrong.
For I was a girl, abused and betrayed,
A warning in marble, a myth they remade.

So call me a monster, but know I was true,
A victim of gods and the cruelty they brew.
And still my sisters, in sorrow, remain,
To mourn the sweet girl who died in her pain.

Perseus and the Gorgon, by Laurent Marqueste

2025 ©️

Greek, Poetry

Athena

The Royal Octopus

She sprang from thought, a sharpened cry,
In armour born beneath the sky.
No cradle rocked her into grace,
She came with spear and solemn face.

The owl, her herald, wise and keen,
She walks the line where thoughts convene.
In battle’s din or council’s breath,
She weaves a thread that outwits death.

For war, when guided by her hand,
Is strategy, not scorched command.
She teaches craft, she builds with care,
A city’s shield, a sculptor’s prayer.

Yet even minds of deepest reach
May fault when power eclipses teach.
Medusa knelt in sacred place—
Wronged and wept with shame on face.
Athena’s wrath, swift and unkind,
Made serpents of a tortured mind.

And Arachne, who wove her soul in thread,
Was cursed for truths the stories said.
The goddess, jealous, proud, and great,
Still stamped her mark with mortal fate.

So honour her for what she gives—
The will to fight, the strength that lives.
But never forget, for all her grace,
There’s shadow in her sculpted face.

She is the wisdom in the flame,
The justice blind, yet not the same.
And though her glory strikes the stars,
It leaves behind its share of scars.

© 2025

Greek, Poetry

Ares

The Royal Octopus

They curse his name in battle cries,
Where blood runs thick and thunder flies.
He rides where mortal fears ignite,
The flame that feeds on hate and fight.

A clash of steel, a roar, a scream,
He moves like smoke within a dream.
No prayers to him are made in peace,
But only when the swords release.

Yet courage, too, wears Ares’ face,
The heart that quickens in the chase,
The fearless soul that dares to stand
With shaking spear and trembling hand.

Though war is cruel, he is not blind—
He knows the cost that’s left behind.
And in the stillness, post-affray,
He weeps in silence, turned away.

But only she can reach him then,
Beyond the rage, beyond the men.
Aphrodite, soft and sure,
The balm no armour can endure.

She winds her arms around his form,
And in her kiss, he drops the storm.
For even war, with bloodstained hands,
May long for love that understands.

So name him god of wrath and flame,
Of broken limbs and fleeting fame.
But do not forget he leads the brave—
Not just to glory, but to grave.

© 2025

Greek, Poetry

Aphrodite

The Royal Octopus

From seafoam swell and salted light,
She rose at dawn, serene and white,
A pearl unprised from ocean’s hold,
With eyes like dusk and hair like gold.

No mother’s hands nor mortal womb,
She bloomed amid the surf’s perfume,
The waves made way, the winds knelt low,
And whispered hymns the gods would know.

The sparrows sang, the roses climbed,
Each blossom born in perfect time,
And from the shore the world stood still,
For beauty bends both fate and will.

She smiled, and hearts began to burn,
A glance, and empires failed to turn,
Her silence sweeter than a hymn,
Her wrath a tide that none could swim.

For though her touch is soft and sweet,
Beware the thorns beneath her feet,
For love, though dressed in silk and grace,
Can scorch the stars and strip their place.

So praise the foam, the bloom, the fire,
But do not scorn what gods desire.
For Aphrodite, fair and wild,
Is never just a pretty child.

© 2025