Incubus, Part II

His eyes were just flat static,
Not the fragile abyss
Most humans’ pupils harness.
His lips—pursed, as if to kiss
Or to instrument some sick bargain—
Are charred crimson, thick, cracked, crisp, and
Christened with criticism given on whim.
Skin akin to asphalt
Scrawled upon by black chalk
In cryptic script he laughs off
Until those words fall to the carpet,
Bevel the walls with tessellated print:


LOVE

LILITH