Nameless and hated

I hold a warm fondness for his stitched despair,
For Frankenstein’s Adam, condemned by a stare;
Made without consent, despised for his frame,
Cast into hatred before he knew his own name.

He was gentle at first, though sorrow ran deep,
Self-loathing haunted the wounds he would keep;
Yet still in his ruin, his battered heart longed,
To love and be loved, where he never belonged.

Pushed past his breaking, undone by neglect,
By the hands that had made him, then cast him reject;
The cruelest of makers saw truth far too late,
Not spectre or wretch, but a soul formed by its fate.

Forever lost in icy silence, abandoned, alone,
He wanders through sorrow no mercy has known;
And still I feel grief for that heart torn asunder,
That unwanted thing they named with such thunder….
Monster.