The Modern Prometheus

The distinction is a lack of life, rather than the presence.
A puppet without a puppet master,
A puppet risen up to hold its own strings,
Tangled and bound by uncertain limitations.
A caricature of humanity,
Cold wax carved and scrapped.
The creeping sense of otherness.
No attempts were made to bridge the gap,
To dispel the uncanny dread.
Almost human,
But not quite.
Warped and wretched.
Cast down from grace.
Exiled and abandoned.
Wanderer wandering, wondering, watching.
Wings clipped, still wet with afterbirth.
The warmth of the womb is lost,
Replaced with cold air, sharp wind.
To live is to ache.
To live is to burn.
What purpose serves the outlier?
What fate befalls the outsider,
The prodigal son returned?

---

Originally written in 2016, inspired by Mary Shelley’s iconic novel.