Some ideas start as dreams,
Some stories start with a dream.
One dark, stormy and spooky night,
Byron told a ghost story,
Exercising his craft,
For reading and writing,
Like Mary herself,
Exercising the task, "Now you write a ghost story."
And Mary lay, tossing and turning,
Half awake, sleeping, waking,
In that in between state of mind land.
Electrical shocks can make dead animals twitch.
What is science coming to?
Dreaming, dreaming,
A chill in the air,
A muse came to Mary that night.
The horror! The horror!
A man made entirely of dead body parts.
He looms over her bed.
She is fully awake, in fright.
Forget it, she tells herself, shivering.
Forget the fear.
The monster.
The stitches.
The sallow dead skin.
Then, why, there's her ghost story!
But not a ghost, a living corpse,
Brought to life by a scientist,
Unaware of what he has brought into the world.
The horror! The horror!
Don't shock and bloody with nature.
Mary created stories,
But never played God.
Hmm, Castle Frankenstein, thought Mary,
What an eerie name.
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