The cockatrice regards the mirror
The gaze thrice distilled poison.
He sees not
mere ugliness, though he wishes he could.
He sees evil in
his countenance.
It is as toxic as
The fury he, scatter-shod,
Casts about his roiling body.
He can feel the harm he does,
His caustic gaze devours flesh and
He wants to close his eyes, but
The ache of lonesome decades
Drags them back open.
He used to cry oaths of penitence to the stars
As though that shame meant something.
Now he wishes that
He believed in
What he believes in,
And that
She loves him half
As much as he hates himself.