Given an empty cup, they filled it with bile.
GIven cool, moist clay, they sculpted a mask.
Given raw stone, they carved a gargoyle.
Given a soul, they created a monster.

And the monster now has monsters of his own.

They filled a cup with bile and filth,
and set it out to poison.
They sculpted a mask to hide the truth,
maybe even from themselves.
They carved a gargoyle to guard their secrets,
with no thought for secrets held in the stone.
They warped a soul, a servant and supplicant to what that soul
thought was important, to create a monster for them to bid.

And the monster now has monsters of his own.
Black faces from a deeper black, from the corners of a monster's
mind, twist in agony as the monster slays them again and again,
banishing them to their cages. For a while at least.
The face of pain leaps, from the corners of the monster's mind, and
writhes in its agony. Glories in it. For to feel pain is at
least to feel. To be alive when so many others are not.
The face of fear leaps, from the corners of a monster's mind, and
begs for its god to release it. But the monster-god will not
release its construct. Release means forgiveness.
The face of remorse leaps, from the corners of a monster's mind, and
cries to its master to remember. Remember why it is there
and how it got there. The monster reels at this face it created
and knows escape is only temporary.

A cup, a mask, a gargoyle and a monster.
These are the faces I've been.
And these are the faces I've seen---
monster to monster.