Frankenstein’s Folly by Renate Petitt

In the realm of the dank forgotten,

a creature was born, forsaken by pride.

Eyes flickering with hollow loneliness,

a symphony of scars etched deeply, the pain shows.


A personage stitched of sinew, raw and untainted,

a patchwork of horrors, a tale intertwined.

A scientist’s creation, cast out by fate,

rejected by mankind, returned to the flame.


In search for belonging, he trudged rural villages,

through the fields of despair, where dreams had died.

His inhuman heart, searching for compassion,

yet mortals had shunned him, with judgment they’d pounce.


Silent and solemn, his footsteps would slide 

through trees consumed by night’s cold embrace.

A soul in turmoil, an existence so futile,

haunted by labels, a monster’s cruel design. 


But beneath the jagged exterior townsfolk would scorn,

lay an essence so fragile, longing for light.

A tender spirit, seeking solace and love,

yearning to hold kindness in his heart.


For even the darkest night cannot dim this flame

of the eager demand for a purpose, and care.

In the heart of a monster lies a thread of humanity,

a dash of sentience, and a longing for life.


The monster unseen, the embodiment of agony. 

A testament to the horrors of man and woman, 

for beneath his scars, lies a story not read,

of love, of loss, and the depths of a broken mold. 


So let us not betray what we fail to comprehend,

for in the face of difference, bridges can be built. 

Frankenstein’s Monster, beyond the tales of myth,

is the reflection of an outcast we too often overlook.


Just as the night sky turns conceals the brightest stars,

take emotion and let it shroud prejudice,

for the monster yearns for love, 

much like any one of us.