29 May 2012
The wind whistled and howled, One cold November Night. A figure was bent behind the window, Of a house only just in sight.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes, He squinted at the board Held up by two thin planks, Cluttered with an enormous hoard.
The instruments lay on the table, With not the slightest sense of care. He had starved himself constructing, The teeth, the claws, the hair.
The features were beautiful; flawless. The perfect set of limbs. But suddenly they didn't look so friendly, As they were nailed onto him.
A spark set the board alight, And the corpse beside it twitched. Its head turned towards his Creator, Of which a look of horror had been hitched.
Our protagonist hurtled away, Into the furthest room. Its eye-sockets darted helplessly, Its steps were shuddering booms.
It lumbered towards the curtains, Of the room the man was hidden. He glimpsed the smooth black hair, The nose and mouth he'd given.
The creature muttered a sound, A soft inarticulate grunt. But the man just trembled softly, His stare was hard and blunt.
Its stitches strained and threatened, To let its organs spill out. As it tore and ripped the curtains, Its lips forming an uncertain pout.
The man seemed to gain some courage, And stood before the being. He gaped in awe and wonder, At the invention he was clearly seeing.
The man stepped closer, smiling, The creature mimicked the same. He peered at its misshapen features, "Adam, shall be your name."
The Adam of his Labours, The fire to his light. The monster helped to guide him, Through his imaginative, impossible plight.
For his creation had come to life, His new, unusual art. But the one thing he had forgotten to give him; Was a simple, human heart.
Frankenstein's Monster • Opuss № I