Whispers cloud the judgment of weakened minds
wreaking havoc with the fragile balance of id and ego
humbling the sprout in its new greenery.
The winds are made of whispers, fear is their home
and each human husk shivers at the sound of them.
The unknown comes in the whispers of dawn,
the burgeoning of night, the bloody bath of birth
and the shriveled skin of the corpses we become.
Whispers cloud the rage of temporal reality
beckoning with their softness, tonguing the ear,
licking the neck too soon stretched on mortalities noose.
Reference Carrie Richards – A Dream in the Mist – line 9 whispered steps