He turns to face
the looking glass,
And there beholds
a monstrous mask

On its surface,
by pale moonlight,
There he sees
the fearsome sight:

Hair of ebon,
deep as night,
Soft like silk
shines in that light

Darker still,
his eyes gleam bright,
Reveal a spark
of Hell's firelight

His fangs lay sharp
on parted lips
With fresh red stains
from stolen sips

Skin like petals
of a rose,
Soft and flawless,
sculptured pose

Here then stands
a work of art--
Not living, breathing,
beating heart.