Scattered Parcels

The voice inside oft speaks to me,

Such artful noise, so pure, so sweet,

When I am just, I hide, I flee,

Though lost or weak, our selves do meet,

My belly groans, my teeth they shiver,

Desirous of such scrumptious morsels,

The tone it shifts; begs, then quivers,

My soul torments like scattered parcels,

And then the words, so sly and faint,

Reminds of how my kind are spoken,

I scream: Begone! Ye wicked haint,

The crimson figment, a shattered token.

The voice returns on rare occasion,

I laugh it gone, no more persuasion.