Lost and thrown from your family
Your curse of the flesh hogging
The attention of the public.
A mind as yours needs to be allowed
Into the view of all in any form
And not put credit elsewhere.
Your mirrors in Persia made the sultan
Wish your death for he feared
You would replicate it for another.
Le Daroga saved you from such a death
As you turned north to the French
And where your story took root.
A mask to hide your shame and horror,
A voice that challenged the gods
And demons alike and wooed.
Your heart was lost to a woman in the chorus
And you began instruction to her
Yet she would not realize your cause.
The Patron had her heart (or so she claimed)
And he gave his heart, as you did,
To the manipulating wench.
Was it her face resembling that of your mother’s
Who had cast you from her no sooner
Than she had you birthed?
Did you hope she would be kinder than
That bitch who tried to kill you before
You were an infant?
It is too late for me to ask you,
Though I would be beyond my honor
If I were to keep your last company.

You are loved past your life…poor Erik…