The Master.


 

Strange, unknown books, voraciously read;

Sleeping ’til noon, every day in bed;

Blaming the dog for sneaking out thrice

Though not so, at home,

Where traps catch mice;

.

Waking, walking the dog, heading west

Without her, though in her house a guest;

Driving to mother’s, on the east side

But returning due east, direction

Defied;

Picture perfect, the story, revealed

In the way

The lips are now sealed, pressed tightly

Betraying

What really has happened

Yes, nearly complete. The lies,

Merely servant; the master:

Deceit.

.

.

.

.

.

© 5/23/2020    Ruth Ann Scanzillo.   All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Rip me off, and I will cut you.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.