Whispers

Do you hear me?

The wind whispers my name as it chills your spine,

shakes your body with cold.

You deny my acquaintance,

but I know you well.

I am that voice in the night you dare not listen to

for I whisper of could-bes, should-haves and ifs.

I am the feverdream of a poet;

his earthsense, his madness.

I hold your life in the palm of my hand,

and slowly I clench each finger.

Ever so slowly a flame is snuffed.

A star bursts; a display of terrible despair.

Planets move to my music

and are born, later to die.

I am the rust on farm equipment

left to weep red tears in the rain.

I have eaten away the wood’s paint;

the gold plate on a charm I’ve tarnished.

I have blurred the granite’s words, the face of its master.

A fading angel bows and murmurs “God bless.”

All things I make tolerable,

yet I am feared beyond all else.

A clock ticks

as a serpent devours his tail,

a wolf, the sun.

The wind whispers my name

as you despair of falling asleep;

“Time.”