Whisper, whisper,
and as such, you’re a harbinger,
turning my back before
I cower
from the path I shouldn’t wander.
Is there nothing
you can do but
whisper, whisper?
You say a dragon never swallows its fire,
and you’ll fan the flame, make it bigger.
Burn the barking dogs,
and burn me with them.
Higher, taller,
standing against the holy order,
you told me I wasn’t born a believer.
And as the watching eyes see you beside me,
from the blood of my kin past behind me
running like a river,
I still wonder if you’re real or a rumor.
Some call you mist,
a tale to scare children straight.
Others say you’re the reason
my temper flares,
my nights don’t rest,
your presence lingers.
And I stand between all of that,
with this storm in my head—
sometimes calling it instinct,
sometimes calling it you,
sometimes afraid
it’s only me,
whispering
whispering
make-believe
of your whisper, whisper.


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