The whispers in the attic are high above our heads, with the larks and angry ravens, dipped wings from white to black.
They won't hear you, be calm. They hear you call the storm. They hear you make your statement with a thunderous clout, forlorn.
But it wasn't. It wasn't heard. And all those whisperings of needles and pins like hundreds of sparrows wings, beating fast and spreading, splaying legs, plucked and shedding.
Whispers whisper slowly, they sneak over and crawling, sprawling and bawling over rooftops from the attic, spilling out through black nights, crows pecking at moon light.
Squawking, singing, tripping, so giddy, to the ears of hidden privy. To tumble the word, the whisper it's golden.
To spoil it would be rotten, but lest it is forgotten, that whispers are unspoken, 'cept in the rooftops of attics, where they're practically sycophantic.
And some will seep and ooze, like a deep slumbering snooze, filling the rooftops like thick soup, reminiscent of halitosis, the stench of wrong whispers, twitching cats whiskers, tapping paws upon the skylines, whispers upon whiskers.
Get stolen, be taken by the whispers so mistaken, from the bird twitterings of stench, from wench upon wench.
