Frankenstein

"I see a man," intoned the gypsy
as she cast her gaze deep within the swirling mists of the crystal ball.
"A young man, kind and gentle."

And like Athena from Zeus's head,
so I sprung into being.
I've been predicted, predetermined, preordained.
Am I just a figment in the mind of this person, 
my creator,
and shackled to the tides of her thoughts?
Does creation presuppose control, subservience?
Do I dangle like a helpless marionette
from the yanking threads of her whims -- or grand scheme?
Or like Frankenstein can I smash the bonds and run amuck
in the fertile fields of her imagination?
And where does my reality intersect her imagination,
and further, trespass on her reality?
Do the villages I burn and the fields I trample
then exist only in her mind?
Or can the fires of my passion and frustration be seen through the blacks of her eyes?
Glints mistaken by a passerby as reflections of the sun or a candle,
not the conflagration ignited
as my minute signal
to the world outside that I'm alive
and that the cage of her mind is imperfect.
I have pierced her reality.
Someday someone will notice,
and I will lick with flame and ire
the recesses of her thoughts until that someone does.
And when that happens,
I will learn my futility
and obediently lay waste to the dreams
my creator has conjured for me to destroy.

Back where you came from