the wretched shackles that bound my wrists clanged together dreadfully as I shook
they themselves being the bindings between my innocence and the gallows patiently awaiting me
the voyeurs shout-
"murderess, o foul murderess!
burn eternally, you foul murderess!"
I am numb to these accusations,
as I am numb to the fear of death
the benevolent masses, the enemies that seek my execution,
these are not evil spirits
and so,
the guilty verdict that once grated against my skin now feels as soft and gentle as the clouds that, too, await me
I have retired the melancholy
I resolve myself to die with the dignity and gentleness that I had conducted myself with from the moment I was given life
I resolve to hold onto the sweetness and maternity that I showed that sweet boy,
that I had used to hold him for the first time
my hands, nothing but affectionate to that boy, my boy
the same hands that loved and cared for him from his very conception,
these are the hands they convict
these hands were supposedly the weapon that choked the life out of that sweet fawn, that I had loved so dearly
and so, these are the hands that are held accountable
bound behind my back, wrapped together tightly
these are the hands of love that have been convicted
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 8:15 AM UTC
the wretched shackles that bound my wrists clanged together dreadfully as I shook
they themselves being the bindings between my innocence and the gallows patiently awaiting me
the voyeurs shout-
"murderess, o foul murderess!
burn eternally, you foul murderess!"
I am numb to these accusations,
as I am numb to the fear of death
the benevolent masses, the enemies that seek my execution,
these are not evil spirits
and so,
the guilty verdict that once grated against my skin now feels as soft and gentle as the clouds that, too, await me
I have retired the melancholy
I resolve myself to die with the dignity and gentleness that I had conducted myself with from the moment I was given life
I resolve to hold onto the sweetness and maternity that I showed that sweet boy,
that I had used to hold him for the first time
my hands, nothing but affectionate to that boy, my boy
the same hands that loved and cared for him from his very conception,
these are the hands they convict
these hands were supposedly the weapon that choked the life out of that sweet fawn, that I had loved so dearly
and so, these are the hands that are held accountable
bound behind my back, wrapped together tightly
these are the hands of love that have been convicted
so I started reading Frankenstein. Mary Shelly is an amazing writer, I decided to write a poem in her style as practice. I'm quite happy with the result, honestly!
