by Nick Gisburne
Encouraging his quaint creation, “Run!”
He snarls to see the skitters of its feet.
Although his wicked work is far from done,
He finds determination in defeat.
The terrors he entices into life,
Their bones and skin and sinews crudely fused,
Are freaks and failures, destined for the knife.
Without remorse, their bodies are abused.
A hundred more, dismissed, discarded, starve.
They whimper, in a bucket, or a bin.
He splits apart a beating heart, to carve
His next abomination, and its twin.
The magical creator has a plan,
A creature he can plague and punish. Man.
