Crowley

The man stood at the hall of mirrors,
his eyes a bright yellow,
from beneath his mask of a bird,
never one to say hello.

That beak a shiny as his shoes,
his words a soft ruse,
wrapping around ones neck like a noose,
his laughter sharp yet promising.

His words lay empty,
a promise yet to be fufilled,
never even lending a coin to share,
never one to care.