My darling, I write this encomium,

To tell you a truth among my lies,

I was born in a mausoleum,

And from henceforth I was brought to life.

They did feed me with knowledge,

And I did drink up their love,

I was a patron to those beneath our feet.

I was a patron to those above.

Sewn with formalities, my dregs grew to limbs,

I could stand, I could dance, and I could fall.

From the ashes and dust, I stood like a token,

Fractiously withstanding the years.

They told me ‘no’ ‘yes’ ‘perhaps’,

Answers robust, to questions unasked.

I was a different kind of similar,

With my shoulders of stone and my soul of glass.

A sturdy reminder,

A freak show at most.

‘This is what happens, when the soul doesn’t go’.

But it did.

With the gentle swim of a trust lost,

My soul dived deeper with every mention

Of a monster, of a corpse recrossed.

I became the beast they sought me to be.

I become myself,

I became free

From all except the chains of my own stories,

With which I now bear unto you.

Which is why, patient listener,

I ask of a favor.

When I am released from this slaver of

My own dismal life,

Set nuclear roses upon my birthing suite,

And I will smile upon you until we meet.

Think this not to be an unhappy tale,

I was born dead and died alive, for you

my actions act as a countervail.

I am the stillness between the

‘Once upon a time’ and ‘Happily ever after.’

Forget not the beast with his nuclear bouquet,

and the fated flowers that grew from his grave.