Maybe we are all Frankensteins
creating our own monsters,
engaging technology to be
more than we otherwise would be
to gain more than we are owed.

Inventing ourselves as something new,
but inescapably missing something,
something of the soul,
something of the heart,
and thus we fail to love this new creature.

There is ugliness in the new us,
and in the world for which we
toil in self-invention, as we
see it turning around only
us, the narrator of our story.

Redemption is possible with empathy,
and love, and the practiced art of seeing
the world as tangential to ourselves.
The accident which is making us late
Is something far worse for the injured.

The world turns with or without us,
the time is not for me, it is for everyone.
We may choose to be part of a great love story,
the actors most beloved for the love-shared,
rather than the lonely narrator of a horror story.