This poem only available on Stories Space

Enveloped in the midnight velvet,
Breezes sneaking through the pane,
Breathing on the threadbare curtains,
Whispers call me through the rain.

Orange glows of street lamps shining
Fill the air with silent cheer,
But still I hear the whispers call me,
Echoes through the midnight fear.

In the stillness of this hour
When others are snug in their beds,
Thoughts of you claw midnight hauntings
Whilst sweet dreams fill others' heads.

Long ago, the whispers started,
History, dark and dim with age,
And still the memory lives on, calling,
Soaking through this living page.

Turning leaves on trees and in books,
Phantom author makes his mark
And whispers through the midnight velvet,
Crawling spectres in the dark.

No singing wind of happy summers
Or springs where winter winds are whist,
But voices echo in this autumn,
Calling through the thickening mist.

A plagiarist of life that was mine
Butchered every hope and dream,
And whispers in the wind still call me,
Always calling, never seen.

For midnight monsters can't be spied
By others, though they try their best,
And whispers calling won't be silenced
By my will or my behest.

And so this candle burns down by me,
Guttering as the whispers sigh,
Waiting for the wind to die down,
It waits for dawn to break the sky.

This poem only available on Stories Space