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.
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