Cold Like Glass

I dug up this poem recently. It's one I wrote a while ago: my first attempt at Lovecraftian poetry.

The last words I heard were
"Oh god! What have I done!"
And the phone went dead.
I thought the operator could help me.
Find the number and address of the call.
In the cold darkened room,
I found a man.
Completely featureless,
Blank.
A yellow mask obscured his face.
Even his eyes were hidden
by deformed grooves,
carved in a bastardized style of eyes
not known to this earth.
Reaching to remove the mask
I saw there were no seams but
could not reach his face.
My fingers were pried open,
open as though pressed flat against a wall.
Yet the contour war far too smooth.
And cold
like glass.