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Whisper
There’s an odd creature on my shoulder
that whispers when my head tilts right.
When I am quiet it gets bolder,
when I’m bolder it gets a fright.
More often than not
it lies when it speaks,
and the almost-truths that it tell
have the most danger to wreak.
You should see how it grins
when I’ve done what it said.
Or how the grin gives way to teeth,
when I’m slow to be led.
Yet not always bad,
it comforts me at times.
It reminds me of happy things
when I’ve committed its crimes.
Night-whispers, like old folktales,
bring dread to my mind.
When it makes even small shadows
into monstrous shades maligned.
This creature on my shoulder,
so odd and so small,
brings me troubles and terror
when its whispers into my ear starts to crawl.
Copyright ©
Simeon Labuschagne
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