I used to be suspicious,

Suspicious of the whispering

Like the wind on

A stormy day

Or the whistling 

Underneath the doorways 

Or the sudden 

scattering of leaves 

In Autumn.

The whispering

Used to send me 

to a place of worry,

Never good enough

To face the demons

Of my own creation

Or of the creator.

The whisperings

Now more 

gentle in spirit

Acquaintances of sort, maybe?

Maybe unknown

Maybe a mystery

But familiar


In a deeper

Than just known way 


Knowing all the same

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