Whispers are voices of solemn eyes,
They express the deepest thoughts,
Whether to onself or to another,
They express everything we are inside.
Whispers are what we feel within,
They are malicious, alarming, and suicide,
Also, they hold want, desire, and dreams,
And especially what lies therein.
Whispers themselves are secrets
Told in confidence to none,
Secrets are a paradox,
For their label, a helix of lies.
To whisper a love is to hope they hear,
However it may be heard,
Through grapevine or messenger,
Or a mutual friend’s word to steer.
To whisper your hate under muttered breath
Is to wish upon malevolence
To find the target yet soon,
And to finally quell your stifled chest.
To whisper of sadness
Is the vain thought of peace,
The endless cycle of solipsism,
Until your life does cease.