To the Creature
O child of midnight’s mournful art,
Born from the grave, yet bound to part,
Your visage wrought of sorrow’s flame,
Yet in your eyes - no curse, no shame.
I see the tremor of your hand,
A soul unclaimed by God or land,
A heart that beats though stitched in fear,
Still longs for love, still draws me near.
The world recoils, it calls you vile,
Yet I behold a gentler smile,
A titan framed in grief’s attire,
But kindled still by secret fire.
Would I could press my lips to clay,
And breathe the dawn into your day,
To teach the stars to bend and weep,
That you might dream, that you might sleep.
No fiend, no monster, but my own,
A wanderer carved from flesh and bone,
And though the heavens curse your birth,
I name you love, I grant you worth.
