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
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