You're a beast

at the prime of your monstrosity,

hell sponsors every intake of breath

and the devils cower under the touch of your fingers.

You don't ride brooms and cross

the light of the moon while people sleep.

No, there's nothing magical about your image

reflected in the eyes of your victims;

there's no beauty in the crooked path you chose,

or the darkness—the hardness— of your heart.

You're a beast:

you and your instruments of death.