The Psychologist

He stands in the attic
the wood old attic
staring at his subject
in the name of his study

His subject stands still
so perfectly still
But it's not her he studies
rather his own reaction

He measures his pulse
jots down a few notes
yet never removes his stare
from his subjects unblinking eye

How strange it is
that he wishes to know
the effect the dead has
on the living soul

Ah yes, she is dead
half rotten flesh
web like cloth
hiding her bones

She is hung from a rope
black hair so long
a look of murder on face
a face of murder on him

The two stand alone
in the wood old attic
a single candle burns
for him to take notes

His heart stays steady
he caresses her hair
no effect on his soul
no reaction in his senses

perhaps a new study
will need be conducted

A Dark Tree

I am a dark tree,
that lives in the field,
watching over grave stones.
They provide my meal.

I am a dark tree.
Single I remain.
Purpose to consume.
Their souls I do drain.

They suspect me not,
While their bodies rot.

The Cloaks of Truth

Falsities in the eyes of Truth are small

They are born, live well, and die well

And Truth looks down and smiles

For He knows they are no threat at all

Ah Falsities! How you still struggle to be

Envious of that eternal Truth you see

Whose very shadow tears you apart painfully

For you are no match, and He knows this, truthfully

Shut up! We Falsities are cunning Sprites

We'll give you a Kiss and We'll lick your feets

HA! There are many of us, but few can fights

And of us who can, we'll show you rights

We'll tell you something TRUES

That once we stole the Cloaks of Truth

And they are our strongest Weapon

For not many challenge us in the Cloaks of Truth

And we walk into your homes

And creep in bed with your childrens

Where we whisper in their ears

And twist their dreams into our machines

And you will wonder how that could be

And we will tell you,

we came by invitation only