His Creation

He lost himself in a ghost

Penning away stories in the night

Brilliant words that needed a name

Deftly and with due precision

She was born of the tip of his quill

This Blythe apparition took life from him

Words fed to her she spewed with glee

Until the day his ghost over shadowed him

Gaining all the praise and acclaim rightly due him

He was Frankenstein and she had become his monster

Terrorizing the village and all that lay in her path

Jealousy engulfed his soul as he plotted revenge

Revenge against his own monstrous creation

Murdering his ghost was tantamount to suicide


One thought on “His Creation

  1. Shrill screams were heard
    As his verve came to her in sync
    She lay, bare to play
    His poison became her ink
    She saw his quill, amidst her feathers
    So whether he spilled his lust forever
    Was but one question of their shared confession
    Until he sipped frae ‘tween her hips
    Then, his soul became bound
    Body-parts united in proudly pliant perversion profound
    Into her mystery he kissed
    Such as yet untouched, succulent bliss
    So frank, in time
    Her Frankenstein
    But so more immoral he be
    Her Dracula, his host
    For her blood-letting Ghost…..


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