Meribel

This is a poem to Meribel
Whom I created out of anger.
A frail woman whom I
Gave a fairy tale beauty
And cursed her to be unloved.

I let her live in the luxury of royalty
And then I made her a beggar.
I gave her a son who loved her,
And whom she loved unconditionally,
And then I made her
Kill him.

I gave her no home, little money, little hope.
Her life consists of:
Garbage palaces
Old and rotten feasts;
Diseased gardens;
Hateful and envious friends.

She lives on streets of shame,
All dirty, all mean,
And all she does is just ramble on
Through this life i gave her.

But after all I put her through,
This beautiful, blind, beggar woman
Whom I made kill her son,
She has defied me:
Her creator,
Her God.
Even now she sings into the wind with sweet, angelic voice.
Even now she is as noble as any saint.
She lives her life as a queen
(of garbage).
Without my knowing
She has become her own
Hemingway, her own
Beethovan, her own
Picasso.

Her life has become filled with meaning
I never gave it.

And for this I hate her.
Because i made her,
Because she is
Human.

So for what it's worth,
Meribel my dear,
You stain of life on paper,
I'm sorry:
For being angry,
For being able to write,
For creating you.

Rest in peace.