The defeated road below my feet echoes these whispers.
They circle me like vultures as their bloody feathers glisten.
My palms are pressed against my ears, but there is no use.
In a moment or two, they will take my pride and shoes.
And I know exactly what they want to steal from my skull.
They notice how my stormy eyes have lost their stale lull.
But their guesses all lead back to gossip columns and lies.
I could not change their minds no matter how hard I tried.
These whispers snake around me with their aching hunger,
Trying to confuse me into thinking I should be a hunter.
They seek stories of paramours, they want some naïve lust.
But I am not a kid, and there is only rage below the dust.
-Jackie
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 