At the top of a house, in a solitary room,
Behind locked doors, by the light of the moon,
There's a candle-lit workshop of filthy creation,
A clinic of secret experimentation.
There, Victor Frankenstein secretly toils,
Day and night all these years without pause.
And though some frantic impulse urges him on,
Nobody knows the cause!
There's something peculiar about what he's doing,
Something just doesn't seem right!
Why is it, I wonder, he never goes out
Except dreadfully late at night?
I spoke with his housekeeper only last week
And my question I'd barely begun
When she answered: The doctor has sensitive skin
And he mustn't go out in the sun.
Then she grabbed my arm and gave me a look
That filled my heart with dread
And the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end
As I listened to what she said:
All that you believe is true
May not be true at all,
And all you imagine cannot be destroyed,
By the end of the day may fall.
And all that you think will always be there,
In the blink of an eye is gone,
And all you assume will last forever,
Could disappear by dawn.
Excerpt from Catalyst Theatre's
FRANKENSTEIN
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