The Daemon's Bride

I have actually posted an earlier version of this poem (see here) but as part of my Creative Writing course I have to submit a portfolio of four poems to be marked. I've decided I'd like this to be one of those poems, so I pulled it out again today and spent an hour or two editing it.

Opinions on it would be very much appreciated.
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The Daemon's Bride

Frankenstein works,
shaping and crafting my future happiness
with His tools of science; I watch,
a foul smile on my foul face.
She will be like me, a shunned monster,
repulsive. And yet I see beauty
in the half-finished form, in the dead flesh
sprawled on the blood-soaked table.

His wasted limbs tremble
as He surveys His second creation.
What dark passions pervert His heart?
Hatred perhaps, or fear;
from my hidden view-point, I wonder,
when He made me
did the same shadow flutter in the air,
or did hope smother His garden of science?

His weary sights raise, and despite the gloom
He notices me examining Him,
I, like a twisted reflection of He;
as father and son, we stare.
And then abhorrence, or perhaps
realisation, erupts in His dark eyes,
and He rips at, savages,
and destroys my bride-to-be.

Treachery! My slave
of a god has destroyed me;
my only chance, my every hope, for love
and acceptance has been ruined.
Hatred, anger, loss and loneliness
explodes from my throat as a howl, displacing all of creation:
there is nothing now,
but the demonic noise of my own pain.


-- Jonathan Hyams