The Whisperers

They lurk inside the radio and speak in silent tones.
They hide inside the walls and whisper words to waken groans.
They haunt with intimations of a terror yet to come,
Repeating tired threnodies to beating of a drum.
Their words are often mumbled by the sounds of daily strife;
The whisperers have naught to do with aught of normal life.
Who are these whisperers you ask, the ones who haunt so well?
Are they avenging angels or dark denizens of hell?
I can’t say who these haunters are, whose sport is making groans;
I only know the whisperers delight to chill the bones.

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