The Whispered Spite

 

     Voices,

They come and they go,

Boasting only an intoxication

Of the macabre,

     Their caterwaul

Their constant intrusions

Upon my every waking minute,

Inspire only a longing

For a premature grave,

     And it’s not that I have

Misdemeanour,

It’s not that I have thoughts

Bargaining a quarrel with law,

It’s not that I am evil,

And it’s not an enquiry

Into all my truest intentions

And yet,

     I find within the confines

Of these walls - a sincerity

Bordering a flow of blood –

But what good,

What good will it do -

To catch just one?

 

     This is not,

Not all within a tortured mind,

For witness to these -

Lobbying only madness

Have sworn,

     Written of the evidence

That many find hard; believe,

And they come within the shadows,

Stalk when wind is neither

Here nor there,

Reaching far beyond a

Fervour when in sorrow

Filled with tears,

     But if I catch just one,

Just one of many -

That incarcerates this soul;

Then all of it will be done,

For my gun,

My gun will be the pen

They fear so desperately,

Filled with contradictions

Yet telling hosts of truth,

Puzzling all those sallow

Phrases – they place

Within like ghosts,

     And I’ll write

An epic journey for

They to follow in my mind,

And discard them

At their resting place;

Where the blind negate –

A sorrowed heart.

 

Michael J Waite 15^th June 2013.