Robert Stone was always known,
For his unnaturally icy skin.
People would swear that if you touched it bare,
Something would change you within.

The myth of Rob comes from one short tale,
Of which I’m about to tell.
No one knows what, or who Rob is,
Only that he comes from hell.

Alone at his home as always,
Rob was reading a bulky book.
But he heard some footsteps through the hallways
And decided to take a look.

A lady is lurking through his home,
And she spots his naked left shoulder.
She reaches and sets her hand on down
And has never felt anything colder.

She instantly regrets her curiosity
And makes an unbearable sound.
Not because of pain, surprise or fear,
But because of something more profound.

Now that’s just a legend, might not be true,
But no one knows where that lady is now.
But it’s past time that I, and everyone, knew,
As much as human knowledge will allow.

Now Rob was aloof so there was no proof,
Of this strange, uncanny theory.
But one day I was curious, of his mysterious,
Flesh that seemed so eerie.

I went to roam and found his home,
So isolated in the wood.
It was dark, filthy, and strangely beautiful.
It looked just like it should.

I peered through the window and there he was.
At least I now knew he was real.
There was frost on the sill, which gave me a chill,
‘Cuz his cold presence I could already feel.

Climbing through the vines, the moss, the weeds,
I found his stunning backyard.
Doors after doors I did see,
But every one of them barred.

Finally I found a window, cracked;
So I began to quietly climb through.
My hair stood up, I had goose bumps in fact.
That’s when I knew the tale was true.

Despite that fact I kept on going,
Then I spotted him in his chair.
He slowly spun around and appeared to be glowing
As he said, “I see you there”.

Glowing red as the sun, again he begun,
To speak in his shady tone.
“Go ahead; touch my icy skin son,
And that lady won’t be alone”.

Because of that tempt, I knew what he meant
But still couldn’t stay away.
He reached out his arm, and to my alarm
I touched it knowing I’d pay.

I let out a yelp, but not for help,
Instead for pure regret.
All feelings were gone, no pain, no care.
No point to even fret.

My soul ****** out, my conscience gone,
Never felt so empty before.
Although I was half mad, I couldn’t feel sad,
Didn’t care for anything, anymore.

That lady from the myth was no longer alone,
In this feeling of pure despair.
For years and years she’d been trapped in him,
In that large and freezing chair.

Standing next to me was a free lady,
Whom I had switched places with.
No longer alone, she had the whole world.
This was the lady, from the myth.

Is this how she, had always felt?
Tortured and alone?
All I know now...
                                            ... is that is how,

I became the new Robert Stone.