Let their voices pour in,
they are tired whispful woahs
celebrating the long torment of strife forgotten.
I am

nothing but a door of the flood gate,
A lost soul mistaken for a whisper.
I am here to find solace in the yearning for more.

I am

In between the circuitry,
riding the signals toward resolution but
I am

Incomplete.

So I must be part of them all

I must be the voices and the path away from the dread that comes
I must be an empty echo of the machine,
a stuck cog crushing a dead rat.

We are the squeal of something dying,
something we've been waiting to fall,
never realizing it was us.

Down the cliff we tumble,
to another door waiting to be opened.

To another body standing at the gate.
Whispers lost on the line.

Yet I hear now the shout from the other side
as the doors swing like hanged corpses,
wood splintering at their hinges.

"Let the voices pour in."