Monster Poem

[They lived in terror. A dark cloud seeping inside souls tearing love and kindness away] I am lost for words to describe the agony of my reflection inflicted upon me; the beast born by a mad scientist. I attempted to dispel the horros, but only sorrow increases with knowledge. Be aware; i am fearless and therefore powerful. Of my creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew that I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endued with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man. I was more agile than they and could subsist upon coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked around I saw and heard of none like me. Was I, then, a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned? I had met and collected data about my kind, which I kept in my belt; some of the hundreds of reptiles whom I had observed and examined had described and catalogued some of the same characteristics that I possessed; I would have liked to know their names, but the science of biology had been as yet in its infancy, and my species had yet to be discovered. The knowledge and skill of man were like a sunrise, full of promise and hope, and yet to be perfected; he had in sight but the future. I learned that I could, if I chose, form bonds with other men; their bodies and blood seemed to me most delicious; I could change into a human form and inhabit their hearts and minds. It was on this account that I have spent my life in all the various cities and towns of the civilized world; so far from the home of my race, I have heard the chanting of men and the singing of women, the accents and manners of the tribes and nations. Many and wonderful things were found to confound me; but these were, on the whole, not very puzzling, and I could find means of unraveling them. I could but marvel that a higher intellect existed than mine; the heavens were my pyramids, the stars the hieroglyphs of my stars, and the stars the myths and the adventures of my legends; yet I could, at times, see and understand the phases of my race. There were times when, at the approach of the Coming, a part of me (for the part that is my creator) remained in the wilderness, silent and waiting. Again and again the cry of the ostrich that beats his breast to frighten off birds, an instinctive cry, ill timed, ill conceived, and not designed to warn, but to warn against, a malicious snake that can strike down the young of an ostrich, caught, without warning, in a way he cannot escape, terrified at its approach, in a strange language it must not understand. By and by I said: You are not yourself; your creators, I mean, have either been long dead or have departed from this earth. :: 07.07.2022 ::