POETRY ON MEDIUM
A Day in the Life of Mary Shelley
~Victor Frankenstein’s POV~
I’m loathe to be rescued, I want Walton’s hands off me.
That beast must be subdued, not even death can dissuade me.
The chill of the Artic imprisons my body,
But Frankenstein’s monster enraptures my psyche.
The work of mine hands, the fruit of my labor.
I, alone, am to blame for the Creature’s behavior.
For I’d thought I could die in heavenly ardor,
When I’d created a beast that defies nature’s order.
He was a frightful sight, this Creature of mine,
A lump of yellowed flesh and deadened souls,
A behemoth waste of my precious time,
A creation of a cowardly, spineless source.
“What wrong you have done, Victor Frankenstein!”
I assault my temples with white-knuckled fists.
“You’re a fool, thrice as frenzied as Einstein!”
My self-condemnation will never desist.
My brother is gone, his blood taints my hands,
For Frankenstein’s monster was mine to command.
My close friend is dead, what a sad, deadly dance,
For to draw close to me is to shake the grave’s hand.
My blood sings the tune of my creature’s demise,
My hands itch to wring him of hope and of life.
Black tendrils of hate interlace with the cries
That peal from the earth - the wails of my wife.
Find bliss in the calm; avoid haughty ambition,
For what starts as intent will welcome contrition.
I created my monster with passion and vision,
But what I feel now is naught but dejection.
I lie on my death bed, contempt becomes me.
God and the Hosts will surely reject me.
Satan’s mercenaries will mock and deride me.
But if this is penance, then lo, let it take me.
This piece was written in response to ‘A Day in the Life of …’ — a series of photo prompt exercises by Susi Moore.
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