A man ,
A man sits on a wooden chair,
In a room ; bright and blinding,
A mirror sits in front of him,
Long and lengthy,
His reflection stares back at him,
The man sits rigid and unmoving,
His head slightly tilted,
He is grinning,
All thirty two of his white teeth showing perfectly,
Along with his perfectly normal expression,
His eyes are almost closed,
Unnatural and eerie,
The man is human,
Of course he is,
Why would he not be?
He\'s human, trust us.
The man has left the room,it seems,
He wanders the schools and the streets,
The temples,
And the churches,
The restaurants ,
And the roads,
With the same expression he wore on the chair,
Nodding and smiling,
Mimicking the humans and making them trust him.
The clocks bleed away,
And a hunger takes over the man,
A deep, insatiable hunger,
Until eventually, he is possessed by it,
And his facade falls off,
His eyeballs leave the socket behind,
Escaping with a loud pop,
Dangling near his knees,
Held by a thin string of flesh and filth.
Inside his mouth,
His tongue is evolving,
Longer now with a mind of it\'s own,
It has a thousand vacuums on it,
It is meaty,
It is moving,
And it is morbid.
The skin of human, which the man wore,
Has long since fallen,
Laying forgotten in a corner,
As the man\'s truth emerges,
From his hunger alone ; he transforms,
The man ,
Selfish and insatiable.
The man will still walk and wander,
The schools and streets,
The temples and churches,
The restaurants and roads,
He will still smile and nod,
Make small talk and mimic the humans,
Who don\'t seem to notice that the mask has fallen,
Deaf to the dread,
Blind to the bloodshed,
Self absorbed in their own atrocities,
He will smile and nod,
Earning trust of the tone deaf.
Until he spots something that catches his eye,
A toy ,
A doll,
Porcelain with a pulse,
A dressed up corpse,
Breathing corpse wrapped in corset,
Souvenir in skirts.
The man slithers closer to his souvenir,
He will stand and from a distance, he will stare,
And stare and stare,
Drinking in the sight of her,
The sight of his doll,
The clocks will bleed away,
Until a drop of blood falls to the ground,
And the man\'s eyes will roll back,
And his tongue will thrust forward,
Slithering and sickly,
Still from between his thirty two perfectly white,
Perfectly human teeth.
His tongue will wrap around the doll,
The doll, disgusted and distressed,
Tongue - tied to the man,
The man will reel her in closer and closer,
Holding her waist by his tongue,
He will elongate his neck and widen his mouth,
The man\'s smile is now stretching beyond his face,
And his head sits on top of lengthened limbs .
The man will swallow his souvenir whole,
All in one go,
And slowly and painfully,
The doll will be devoured,
And for once,
The man will be mimicking not the humans,
But the snakes.
The rough texture of his tongue,
Skinned the poor porcelain alive,
A shell of who she used to be,
Her skin,
Her mask,
Lies in front of him,
Filthy and forgotten.
He will pick it up with his clawed hands,
And he will walk back to his room,
Opening the mirror to reveal a closet,
A closet full of skins of his past souvenirs,
Filthy and forgotten,
The man has a habit you see,
He never lets the shell of his dolls go to waste,
After all, he\'d need it later to shift form,
For when he\'d roam through the schools and streets,
The temples and churches,
The restaurants and roads.
The man will sit still all night,
Smiling, unmoving,
Staring at his reflection,
And when the sun shall rise,
He will open the closet ,
And pick the skin which suits him best,
He will use the shells of past distressed dolls to catch yet another corpse ; wrapped in corset,
And he will continue his little game of predator and prey,
Until every single porcelain has lost its pulse,
Until every single souvenir is skinned and sickly.