Remember Lot’s wife. Luke 17:32

Sodom—
where are your kin, 
your comforts,
your secret pleasures?

Only screamless gaps, 
tongueless hollows,
stone-blind sockets.
Lot’s wives.

Medusa’s eels—
tentacles of absence,
her sensual gaze—the one all seek,
the lust that ends all longing—
wove your people into salt.

Like ants from the deep,
the men of Gomorrah rose—
armed with mirrors and swords,
with myths in their mouths—
drawn to the spider.

Most beautiful, once—
now all coil and snake,
unblinking eyes,
a searing white fire to the flesh.

Come closer, she whispered.
You think the die is not cast.
They all do…

You want the truth?
I was made holy
by becoming monstrous.
I did not choose this fate.
I did not ask to be His sword.
But I do swing.

The tale never changes.

Irresistible sights—
they come,
they look, 
they stall.
Cities crumble.

And still…
they carve my name 
into the stone left behind.