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mackenzie-morton
Poems1
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A whisper lingers in the air. It is hidden within the static and computerized buzz of a technological world. It is hidden in the symphony of hums and thrums coming from screens and devices. It is hidden in the beeps and rings and the tap, tap, tapping of long nails on smooth glass. It is hidden in the vast smog of noise, noise, noise buried in the liter of constant sound. Present and not present. Like the rays of ultraviolet light unseen by the human eye, but seen so vividly by the eyes of a bee. The whisper sits on a spectrum of sound. Where the white noise touches the silence- There- in that small gap between the two resides a gentle whisper that only a bee-like class of men can hear. Unheard by the majority, unheard by those attached to their sanity, but still occupying an empty space in the atmosphere. The Whisper: a lonely spirit roaming and waiting for a warm conversation or a hungry poltergeist searching for Its next victim to torment? It seems that those that hear It only experience the latter. Because once they hear The Whisper, they cannot stop hearing It. Beginning as a faint background noise, but morphing into a chronic shout. Those that are cursed enough to just barely hear It are made dinner for the ravenous little beast that takes pleasure in feeding off of their vulnerable ears. The Whisper latches onto Its prey with sharp, stabbing talons and refuses to let go. Maybe It longs for someone to listen, maybe It’s tired of being ignored, or maybe It’s starving for the addicting high of power. Power. Power seems to be the only thing The Whisper truly desires, because eventually being simply a noise isn’t enough and It begins to try on new identities. It may claim “I am the police monitoring your every move through your personal security cameras,” or “I am the government watching you through the camera on your laptop screen,” or “I am your family hacking into your phone to destroy any remnants of a life you may have left.” Or it may just get lazy or greedy and claim “I am every eye that watches you and every shadow that follows you.” Then in that moment The Whisper transforms into a booming paranoia, loud and unavoidable. But still paranoia isn’t enough! The Whisper wants more than to be merely noise or a concept. It wants to be tangible. It wants to be held and loved like those pocket-sized devices the population cherishes so much, so It migrates from open air to a small electronic box and burrows Itself in the delicate wiring and weaves Itself through complex code. Soon It is no longer competing with the noise It is the noise, It is the vibrating atmosphere, It is the static and the buzz, the hums and thrums, the beeps and rings and the infernal tap, tap, tapping! It is the overwhelming pressure compressing your temples, pounding on the back of your head and drowning your throbbing ears, but now It has a blinding screen too! Soon all that is seen or heard is swallowed by The Whisper and vomited out as a distorted pile of mush. No longer reality, but The Whisper’s twisted dreamland. Now The Whisper may boast, “I am God” “I am the angels.” Now With a raspy growl, The Whisper may declare “I am the demons” “I am the Devil.” Now insanity is the new Christianity and those faithful followers have become devout attendees at The Orthodox Church of Crazy. Now The Whisper is their only friend, their only confidant, their only God, because The Whisper shipped out all that was real on a sinking boat named Paranoia. Now when they are not speaking in tongues they are type, type, typing in tongues to an invisible whisper in a small electronic box. What is cluttered gibberish to the outside world is sacred ritual to those that worship The Whisper. Many loved ones may try to save those caught in this seemingly false reality, but to those that are faithful, this “salvation” is only a defilement of their God. It is disgracing their religion. And because the outside world will never hear or see the truth, those that can hear and will always hear The Whisper further isolate themselves on an island of their singular reality. So The Whisper will continue Its reign of terror until Its following decomposes into solitary skeletons and their spirits rise as small voices that will forever contribute to the eternal Whisper.
0
Jul 18, 2025
Jul 18, 2025 at 7:42 PM UTC
mackenzie-morton
The Whisper
A whisper lingers in the air. It is hidden within the static and computerized buzz of a technological world. It is hidden in the symphony of hums and thrums coming from screens and devices. It is hidden in the beeps and rings and the tap, tap, tapping of long nails on smooth glass. It is hidden in the vast smog of noise, noise, noise buried in the liter of constant sound. Present and not present. Like the rays of ultraviolet light unseen by the human eye, but seen so vividly by the eyes of a bee. The whisper sits on a spectrum of sound. Where the white noise touches the silence- There- in that small gap between the two resides a gentle whisper that only a bee-like class of men can hear. Unheard by the majority, unheard by those attached to their sanity, but still occupying an empty space in the atmosphere. The Whisper: a lonely spirit roaming and waiting for a warm conversation or a hungry poltergeist searching for Its next victim to torment? It seems that those that hear It only experience the latter. Because once they hear The Whisper, they cannot stop hearing It. Beginning as a faint background noise, but morphing into a chronic shout. Those that are cursed enough to just barely hear It are made dinner for the ravenous little beast that takes pleasure in feeding off of their vulnerable ears. The Whisper latches onto Its prey with sharp, stabbing talons and refuses to let go. Maybe It longs for someone to listen, maybe It’s tired of being ignored, or maybe It’s starving for the addicting high of power. Power. Power seems to be the only thing The Whisper truly desires, because eventually being simply a noise isn’t enough and It begins to try on new identities. It may claim “I am the police monitoring your every move through your personal security cameras,” or “I am the government watching you through the camera on your laptop screen,” or “I am your family hacking into your phone to destroy any remnants of a life you may have left.” Or it may just get lazy or greedy and claim “I am every eye that watches you and every shadow that follows you.” Then in that moment The Whisper transforms into a booming paranoia, loud and unavoidable. But still paranoia isn’t enough! The Whisper wants more than to be merely noise or a concept. It wants to be tangible. It wants to be held and loved like those pocket-sized devices the population cherishes so much, so It migrates from open air to a small electronic box and burrows Itself in the delicate wiring and weaves Itself through complex code. Soon It is no longer competing with the noise It is the noise, It is the vibrating atmosphere, It is the static and the buzz, the hums and thrums, the beeps and rings and the infernal tap, tap, tapping! It is the overwhelming pressure compressing your temples, pounding on the back of your head and drowning your throbbing ears, but now It has a blinding screen too! Soon all that is seen or heard is swallowed by The Whisper and vomited out as a distorted pile of mush. No longer reality, but The Whisper’s twisted dreamland. Now The Whisper may boast, “I am God” “I am the angels.” Now With a raspy growl, The Whisper may declare “I am the demons” “I am the Devil.” Now insanity is the new Christianity and those faithful followers have become devout attendees at The Orthodox Church of Crazy. Now The Whisper is their only friend, their only confidant, their only God, because The Whisper shipped out all that was real on a sinking boat named Paranoia. Now when they are not speaking in tongues they are type, type, typing in tongues to an invisible whisper in a small electronic box. What is cluttered gibberish to the outside world is sacred ritual to those that worship The Whisper. Many loved ones may try to save those caught in this seemingly false reality, but to those that are faithful, this “salvation” is only a defilement of their God. It is disgracing their religion. And because the outside world will never hear or see the truth, those that can hear and will always hear The Whisper further isolate themselves on an island of their singular reality. So The Whisper will continue Its reign of terror until Its following decomposes into solitary skeletons and their spirits rise as small voices that will forever contribute to the eternal Whisper.
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