My darling, I write this encomium,
To tell you a truth among my lies,
I was born in a mausoleum,
And from henceforth I was brought to life.
They did feed me with knowledge,
And I did drink up their love,
I was a patron to those beneath our feet.
I was a patron to those above.
Sewn with formalities, my dregs grew to limbs,
I could stand, I could dance, and I could fall.
From the ashes and dust, I stood like a token,
Fractiously withstanding the years.
They told me ‘no’ ‘yes’ ‘perhaps’,
Answers robust, to questions unasked.
I was a different kind of similar,
With my shoulders of stone and my soul of glass.
A sturdy reminder,
A freak show at most.
‘This is what happens, when the soul doesn’t go’.
But it did.
With the gentle swim of a trust lost,
My soul dived deeper with every mention
Of a monster, of a corpse recrossed.
I became the beast they sought me to be.
I become myself,
I became free
From all except the chains of my own stories,
With which I now bear unto you.
Which is why, patient listener,
I ask of a favor.
When I am released from this slaver of
My own dismal life,
Set nuclear roses upon my birthing suite,
And I will smile upon you until we meet.
Think this not to be an unhappy tale,
I was born dead and died alive, for you
my actions act as a countervail.
I am the stillness between the
‘Once upon a time’ and ‘Happily ever after.’
Forget not the beast with his nuclear bouquet,
and the fated flowers that grew from his grave.