Not a poem
Not a poem.
I hurt;
like a Frankenstein monster.
Iron fist.
Unrelenting.
Squeezing my heart.
The campaign has begun.
The villagers gather as I speak.
It’s only a matter of moments now.
They are coming.
Nowhere to run or hide.
Heart pounding.
Panic.
Taste of blood and rust in my throat.
I must make my peace;
certainly not with them.
It is too late for that.
But with my maker.
The Frankenstein monster cries;
“Who are you that has made me thus?”
To the villagers
I am but rags and bone;
without heart or soul.
It’s easier that way
for what must be done.
No way out.
They are here.
They are closing in.
It is done.
