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…