Instead, it made the sadbeast more deeply despair.
No longer did his sadness exist in
a state of bittersweet melancholy,
or holy solitude,
or pure and quiet spiritual death.

In the place of what had been
a healthy and lone sadbeast,
content to be sad and happy
at the same time,
was a mockery
of a happy-mimic.

The sadbeast
was so convincing in his charade
he had forgotten his own soul.

The pools of joy
that sat upon his mirror-mask
hid his own heart from his eyes
when he looked upon his image.

Instead of simply
being unhappy and uncomfortable
with his own oddity,
the sadbeast became obsessed
with making himself a whole-happy-creature.

His quiet solitude
after the sun's setting
slowly lost its peace
and became only torment.

The sadbeast
was furious and crazed,
screaming like a wounded animal
but unable to find his own wounds.