The Whisperers

a poem by Melyssa G. Sprott, USA - poetry writer, author, poet

I walked through the room of a dying old woman,
who felt nothing but apathy towards me.
I was getting ready to leave when I heard
someone softly whispering to me.
I turned and looked at my grandmother,
but she was still asleep.

I heard the whisper again,
barely above the sound of my own breath.
The Whisperers can only mean one thing—
they are the harbingers of Death.
I’m not sure if that’s true or not,
but that’s what the legend said.

I was running late,
so I continued my morning.
I had no time to spare,
not even for the Whisperers’ warning.
Besides, it couldn’t be my end
they were trying to bring.

I was healthy, strong and young—
my grandmother was ailing and seventy-five.
She couldn’t be closer to death,
I couldn’t feel more alive.
I just wasn’t ready yet—
I didn’t want to die.

Later in the day,
a whisper echoed in my head.
I was sure that Death would visit
my grandmother first instead.
But she wasn’t the one He had chosen—
she wasn’t the one who is dead.

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