Who is this monster?
What wretch gazes at me?
Why is his soul so black?
What is this creature I see?
How did he get this way?
What brought him so low?
Surely his misery was well tended,
He is wrought of much labor, I know.
I look upon him with contempt
His failure is painful to see.
Bemused at my revulsion,
He merely grins at me.
He cannot truly love,
A broken thing is he.
Nor can he ever be loved,
A horrid place to be!
His madness is disconcerting,
He operates by no plan.
He destroys what he cares for,
This distorted man.
His avarice carefully reared,
His melancholy liberally fed,
In so many ways,
He is already practically dead.
I look at him in discomfort,
distraught by what I see.
This horrifying thing I behold,
This thing in the mirror is me.
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