Friday, September 20, 2013

V. 2, #175: September 20, 2013

Below the lab, where kings kept enemies,
and chains encircle wrists long gone to bone,
the madman's failure festers, like disease,
and drags its claws across the living stone.

It's fed on table scraps, and bits of meat
the doctor grows in cultures he creates.
Sometimes a nosy cop makes for a treat,
but mostly it lies in the dark, and waits.

Its Father, not indifferent to its pain,
has promised one day to concoct a friend;
but even with its faulty, malformed brain
the Creature can foresee this story's end.

At night it glares up through the dungeon bars,
and when it's very lucky, glimpses stars.

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