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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