I was born with whispers.

Among them, in them, chained by them.

They are the twisted songs I hear at midnight

When I sit clenching, scratching in bed

Trying to sever flesh and bone from soul.

They find cracks in melting ice,

Chinks in ancient stone,

Holes in tattered silk.

Broken, I become them, gnarled and twisted as oak,

Until I am lost.

A ghost

Watching my writhing body,

A puppet with strings tangled.

Threadbare and forgotten,

My soul is caught in limbo

But I must return to the whispers.

I am condemned to their songs