Sunday, September 6, 2020

MADWOMAN

MADWOMAN

The madwoman sits in her spinning room,

playing eerie melodies through the night. 

 She strokes her ancient harp, weaving a spell of insanity. 

 And the neighbors, 

 hearing the strange vibrations, 

 Gather in the streets to gossip and gape. 

 The supersonic music plants demons in newborns 

 sleeping in their cribs

 and lures the neighborhood men far from the arms of their wives. 

 Into the lair of the madwoman and her black circular bed with the spider web design. 

 Intoxicating the scent, irresistible the sounds, 

They so long to sample 

 Her poisonous wine. 

 Meanwhile ever more sinister sounds 

 Emanate from the spinning room. 

 The madwoman laughs at her talent 

And plays 'til the dying of the moon. 

 -Bruce Potts 

 Copyright 2020 

 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

One of my character study poems from my archives

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