Lonely Old Things...
Perhaps a candalabra,
Filled with glowing wax,
Hovers over blank parchment,
A dusty plume quill lying silent,
Next to the dried-up inkwell,
There on the desk in Mary Shelley's room.
Percy will never come home again,
As Frankenstein's monster shall have no siblings,
And the headstone on Mary's mother's grave,
That grows weathered and smooth,
Cracked and tilted,
The flowers there wildly entwined with the weeds.
Even long-hand cursive writing seems doomed,
All despite its lustrous flowing curves,
Sweeping grace into the ephemera of the past.
It was ever the creatures if fortune,
Who could call such things as normal.
It wounds the world to see them as lonely old things...
By: Daniel A. Stafford