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