I deemed I'd do much better than my God above, Himself,
I sought the Master's volumes out gathering dust upon the shelf.
Their supple skin and leathered feel brought an aching heart release,
'twas then I knew why none should die, my mentor's shared belief.
Sketched body parts were works of art, I thumbed through page by page,
these scribblings in old manuals drawn in scientific sage.
Instructions there, I knew– beware! – yet I continued, all the more,
this grisly work, where dangers lurked, completing ghastly chores.
I secured the freshest deadest meat my monies could supply.
A local man, of broadest span, yet one too young to die.
I studied all of the passages so carefully scribed in ink,
set about, dispelling doubt, a corpse could truly think.
My master dead, I feared with dread; I'd surely botched his work,
when last we tried, our creation died after it had gone berserk.
Yet, I prepared most tenaciously each vile device required,
to create a living, breathing man from death; my sole desire.
My assistant brought things I sought, fresh bodies everyday –
to my delight; I'd stockpiled right — choice organs along the way.
My secluded lab was dank and drab, yet blood flowed vivid red.
I diced and sliced, paid a steep price, for bringing back the dead.
In silent prayer, I stitched with care each alabaster limb.
The torso I chose had known few woes; so fit and finely trim.
Heavy-handed my work demanded perfection for creation,
a sculpted nose, creative throes, my greatest expectation.
Choosing a poet's brain, the sutures skeined from sternum to its head,
my scalpel blade assured 'twas staid to reanimate the dead.
Sutured cessations, discolorations, would diminish soon, with time,
I looked down with awe at what I saw, my creation — so divine!
Jacob's ladders hummed, whilst currents strummed — O', exhilaration!
My senses numbed; my heartbeat drummed with great anticipation.
Electrodes placed along the face, affixed to his massive chest,
I switched it on, when came the dawn, yet still, I could not rest...
Ozone fizzled; potions sizzled, as charged lightning took command,
laid low by death; it took one deep breath, then struggled once to stand.
With jubilation, ecstatic gyrations, surely meant to gloat,
As I inched closer, losing composure, it seized me by the throat.
“You'd kill me?” I cried in vain, “'Twas I created you!”
I caught his stench, my hands unclenched, his eyes stared icy blue.
So very slow, spoken soft and low, I could but scarcely hear,
“Father?” he whispered — my sanity blistered — it slowly drew me near...
His ghastly face, so stitched and laced, from sutures sewn by hand,
drooped in sadness, I toyed with madness; as he now rose to stand.
“Yes!” I cried, “You are my son, you'd take my life as yours begins?”
Dead eyes brightened, he spoke, unfrightened — "I'm man, thus I am sin."