whispers come out
of control
of the mouth
of the
selfish thinker

undertones
select know
while in air
their spare
venom lingers

cruelty whips the paranoid
not anxious for no reason
get in line good girls and boys
be one or zero
curve to the confines
of the basic language

meanwhile
the hermit sits
scooping sand
with her
hand and fingers

given that she has
felt the breadth
of human hate
from some the
closest to her

she will still
sit cross legged in pain
every new day
as each day past
spinning the comic
and the tragic

into verse
unique to her
as the voice
in her mind
convinces her

it could keep
others alive

so she sings
she screams
songs of hope
and victory
leaving

whispers
where they ought
to be

hanging
with the liars
unheard
for time enough
in futures
never said