Whispers

Piercing whispers like
Acrid mice; scurrying with
Tiny claws, snatching onto
Scraps of spotlight, then
Staggering into cracks and
Crevices that blemish the walls
When bedroom lights ignite.
Whispers that echo behind
Closed doors and under covers.

Are we really who we
Think we are?

Laughter, not that of the soul
But that of the mind so
Dark and outraged floods the
Room; cackling from a tongue
Dipped in acid, or perhaps
In the juices of an apple
Most forbidden.

Unreliable truths beckon
Relentless vanity.

We don't know
And still we whisper.