by Nick Gisburne
The methods of the man who made me whole
Were stolen from a scientist of note;
Invention, art, beyond this fool’s control.
He fails to fathom what his father wrote.
The flair with which he fabricates my flesh
Is adequate, an amateur’s attempt,
But, sight unseen, my soul and substance mesh.
When love was lost, he copied her contempt.
I fill whatever fantasy he needs
To justify her murder, and to stir
The lust on which his twisted ego feeds.
Obsession blinds him. I am not like her.
I lie. “I love you.” Tearful, he believes,
Too slow to see the dagger he receives.
