Poem 55 – He is Dead Who Called Me into Being

“He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish”
– The Monster
Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, Chapter 24

He is dead who called me into being,
Dead by the hands he made,
Lying there, so peaceful and serene,
Though in life we made him so afraid of our vengeance,
And pursued him to these plains of ice.
He made us as an abortion, cursed to crime,
Wondrous in my beginning, but made wretched by my world.
I destroyed he at whose name my blood doth curl,
And yet my heart feels pity for,
And who’s mercy I seek in his death.
But soon we’ll be forgotten, dying desolate and alone,
For the last memory is gone with my maker’s dying breath.


Dear readers,
If you are to read but a chapter of Frankenstein, make it the last one where the Monster gives his view. It is rather moving. This poem seeks to invoke it, but as ever I am bested by the author. I do not think striving to better her is necessarily wise, or practical.
I hope that you enjoyed the poem,
The Hapless Neo-Romantic


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