Victor, The Father

if ambition is a virtue
then a saint, i am
prancing among tombstones
i regard myself divine
when i’m only cradling cadavers
gripping on torn flesh
imagining it pulsate
underneath my trembling hands

i recreate
to experience beauty
i visit the dead
to feel a birth
i celebrate when
i have the chance
to mourn

my ambition, my downfall

for my name is victor
the father of
the child
i stole
from the womb
of the earth.

I know this poem seems simple and short but it took me three years to be satisfied with it, from 2007 to 2009. I have now lost count the amount of times where I write about Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. It’s still one of the most influential novel to me and I wrote a paper on Frankenstein for my Masters applications.


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