Hands as delicate as a porcelain doll
Coated in a pungent perfume of blood,
Reminiscent of the overbearing cologne
That graces his person.

Pigments, as vibrant as a wild peacock,
Coat his clothing in a skirmish of colours,
Each one more garish than the last.
A false harmony.

Eyes the colour of a Sweet Osmanthus
That, over time, has been left in the sun,
To wither along with the humanity
Behind the eerie eyes that are

Constantly leering at the world,
Hiding under a veil of sweetness
That’s as sugary as syrup, waiting
Till his prey returns.