the whispering voices

the next time
you stroll behind
that shadowy forest
with its whispering voices
almost inaudible
silently speaking secrets

the next time
you leave our world

take this memory
of the day
they murdered your family
and you murdered nothing
no one
but yourself

your terminal memory,
while lying on the frigid floor
beside cold corpses,
last breaths escaping
the void flowing
ever closer
your eyes
nearly shut
blood spraying profusely
out of free veins

you could see
through the open living room
window, outside
against the breeze blown
trees, the shadows danced
playing their own instruments
on the leaves
to the rhythm of
a life you’ll never own

and you knew
that the heart inside
was approaching
a halt
on the long path
through the wilderness

you waited, smelling
the sweet waft
of autumn air
where it finally came
and your inside
left your outside
alone, in a pool
of blood

they all glared
up at you
as the gentle air
took you away
to the silent secrets
of the forest
and their
whispering voices

to walk behind
trees that sway,
swoop, and bend
to hover, just above
their veined limbs
at the end of the day
at the departing of your life

lost in everything
lost in nothing
your bloody body
snuggled away
in the
dimly lit corridor
of our home.

Adam Chesler is a writer of poetry, fiction,
and obscene ramblings. Although his work has
yet to find a space in either an online or
print journal, his first collection of poetry,
Skeleton Street, was published independently
and is available by request. He lives in
Atlanta, GA.

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