The voices are withering  the vine,
with every leaf that crumbles..
they speak louder than mine.

When they talk, they do not scream..
softly spoken needles are driven in
to my mind and they whisper things..

See what they what they say,
painted emotions white washing
all cognitive responses of mine.

They look behind you, not me...
you reading this see the darkness
piercing you with chills while reading..