Mary Shelley's Revenge
Mary Shelley tore a portal through time using grief, love and her dead husband's heart.
In the shadowed annals of forgotten lore, where the veil between mortal grief and eternal defiance thins to a gossamer thread, we find the myth of Mary Shelley, the Heart Weaver — a tale of love's alchemy and the unyielding quest to unravel tyranny's karmic knots.
Mary's husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, the firebrand poet who dared to mock kings and gods with verses like arrows, met his end at sea in July 1822. Whispers persist of foul magick at play: shadowy foes, fearing his radical atheism and calls for republican freedom, may have orchestrated the storm that claimed him. Yet from the pyre on Viareggio's scorched sands, his heart emerged unburnt, a pulsing relic snatched by his friend Trelawny and bestowed upon his wife, Mary, who swathed it in silk like a forbidden talisman.
Mary, the visionary who penned Frankenstein as a caution against hubris and the perils of playing creator, knew Percy's "Ozymandias" held deeper power — a counter-spell against the ancient vandals who twisted our history. These pharaohs, like Ramses II, had defaced artifacts of a lost super civilization, wielding unearned and forbidden tools to vandalize karmic cycles, dictating rebirths to entrench their rule. It was a bad weather system of the soul, a storm that never cleared, binding humanity in loops of servitude, backed by nephilim magic and divine deceit.
For decades, Mary delved into arcane tomes and shadowed grimoires, researching the spell in seclusion. By Lake Geneva's stormy shores and London's fog-shrouded libraries, she pieced together fragments of gnostic wisdom and alchemical rites, her grief forging resolve. At last, on a blood moon's crimson eve in 1850, in England's Chester Square — where lunar shadows danced like spectral veils — she performed the ritual. Ancient volumes encircled her: Plato's elusive forms, Godwin's anarchic fire, her own narrative of creation's folly. Tears mingled with Percy's faded ink anointed the heart; it pulsed with a luminous and undying will, tearing open a portal not merely through time, but through the soul's engineered chains.
Compelled by love's unquenchable spark, Mary stepped forth, altering her destined rebirths. The rift hurled her beyond centuries of smoke and strife, into the body of Maria T., a scientist of the present, dwelling by the sea.
Maria T., now currently plagued by recurring dreams of pharaohs and arbitrary tyrants wielding karmic storms, will find "Ozymandias" manifesting in eerie synchronicity: verses scrawled on fogged windows, echoed in radio static, inscribed in beach sand at dawn. Living near coastal havens teeming with immortal jellyfish — those translucent defiers of death— she will cross paths with a bioartist, a modern alchemist editing life's code.
Together, they will secretly weave the "Ozymandias" poem into the immortal jellyfish's genome — a living library, enduring as the sea itself. No author name affixed, just words as counter-spell, breaking the tyrants' enchantment forever. Upon release, the little jellyfish will carry the myth to all corners of the world within bilge water's unwitting flow, spreading a quiet rebellion and freeing humanity's karmic cycle back to its natural form.
Mary's rite complete, she returned through the veil, living out her days until the natural close in 1851. Yet in her re-incarnation, Maria T., the work presently endures, she has yet to tie the beginning knot in the thread of an eternal tapestry which will free us all.
This is Maria's song.
In ocean's cradle, medusa drifts wide,
A bell of glass, tentacles trailing fate.
Stress calls retreat, cells twist and subside,
To polyp's hold, where colonies await.
One becomes many, budding in the deep,
Dozens, a hundred, clones in endless sleep
Genetic echoes, millions years untold,
Defying death in cycles cold and bold.
O counter-spell, woven in life's thread,
Undo the vandal's lie, let truth be bred.
No king endures, but nature's whisper stays,
In jelly's vein, the poem mocks his ways.
When wounds assault or hunger bites the core,
The form dissolves, a cyst of ancient art
Transdifferentiation's silent lore,
Resets the clock, rebirth without depart.
From medusa's grace to polyp's anchored kin,
The self renews, where endings ne'er begin.
Exponential bets against time's cruel game,
A lineage (laughs) at mortality's claim.
We etch the words in DNA's fine coil,
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
A counter-spell to mock the tyrant's toil,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
No statue stands, but in the jelly's flow,
The vandal's boast in living code we sow
Anonymous, unlabeled, free from name,
Undoing myths that history would claim.
This act defies the pharaoh's stolen throne,
Defacing ancients for his hollow reign.
In jelly's clones, the warning stands alone
A punishment eternal, without chain.
Earth's fabric holds the spell against the lie,
Where doing trumps the being, kings must die!
No god, no spell of nepharium endures,
Just nature's bias, good in waves secures.
O counter-spell, in salted veins you thrive,
Mocking the someone who once sought to strive.
The poem lives, unlabeled, ever new
A warning woven, Earth's own justice true.