Voiceless

The voices that haunt me are deliberating in the corner.

I bet by Monday they will have fresh lies to tell me

And a better plan for getting me to the coroner.

My consciousness is floating in boiling charcoal debris.

As the voices sharpen their crooked yellow teeth,

I struggle to say a word, I struggle to breathe.

They approach me with crosses, raining blood on my bed,

And stare in disgust mixed with vain satisfaction

When I silently whisper, “I would rather be dead.”

The voices that haunt me are screaming my every thought.

I bet by Tuesday they will quiet me down

And dance in the ashes of all the fights I have fought.

-JW