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She, as quiet
as a motel mouse;
sitting in the silence you could cut
with a wielding knife.
Rocking chair
as still as a doldrums ocean.

A book that had yellowed
on her flowered lap, lay
open at the final page.
The air, putrid with the smell of death,
hung heavy like a dew of blood.
Closed curtains, made
all shadows redundant,
hid all insanity, madness….

as he cleaned the shower,
in her borrowed dress.


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The following comments are for "Master Bates"
by ograd77

In her borrowed dress.
Quite the freak, eh?

I like this post. I honestly didn't read the title before the poem and kept thinking this has to be about Norman Bates. I'm slow like that sometimes.

( Posted by: toscano [Member] On: May 3, 2015 )

A Borrowed Dress Unreturned
The skirt insanity hides behind...
is often a borrowed dress

( Posted by: awhippingflame [Member] On: May 4, 2015 )





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