Whispers the Ghosts

A dark and disturbing poem about, well, you decide.

Whispers the Ghosts

A still voice whispers
But no sound travels there.
Ghosts of the past are remembered,
Yet there is no one there to care.

The destiny of the children turn,
With a flicker of hate,
Into pain that no one shares,
Save for the mother, Fate.

Memories pound on the door
Like the reaper come to collect
And the souls of the damned
Stare into the blank face of regret.

Dianne Lowe Breakfield