The Last Whisper. By CpSingleton © 2014
The last whisper was a faint one.
Like a sad child behind a book.
It came and went before the summer
Had had a chance to take a look.
It would fester like a deep wound
Wrapped in oily rags and socks.
Each last word a bitter echo
From an empty, rusty box.
Curses could be offered, but
To whom would it concern?
This heart was now a pie crust
Left in heat to slowly burn.
No hands to come and save it.
They were strapped behind the back
Of every corpse piled high,
Left neatly in a stack.
This is how the day yawned:
With a shrug to take no heed
Of the kernel in the palm,
That looked vaguely like a seed.