Rebecca Temerario

My Conscience Speaks in Whispers

 My conscience speaks in whispers.

Shouts, murmurs, inward laughter- all of it in whispers.

The heart, slowly bleating, marks down the time like a bomb.

Time lost, only to freedom. Whispers

all around. In the bloodstream, in the mind’s seam, steadily conglomerating

like the backward repetition of whispers.

An echo arises in the forest and mindless with autumn’s crestfallen leaves.

They whisper

calling out my name. Would this be lost too if I so choose?

If it is whispers

I hear, but do not listen,

will all good thoughts be lost in the silent noise of winter? The whispers

would fate if I guide them so, wispy

and gliding away. Whispers

overtake me, envelope me in.

I think to reason, but reason in whispers.

That sound in my ears deceives,

as if wise beyond its years. The whispers

loose their sense if they are not nourished.

However, the whispers

flourish. That sound in my ears-

is it my heartbeat or the whispers?