The Voices

The sound of what an itch feels like.

The grinding of a rusty spike

As it drags slowly 'cross my teeth

To overwhelm the nerves beneath.

It started intermittently

Creeping inauspiciously

And now the nagging metal rain

Is firmly anchored in my brain.

A constant, crackling overtone

That rattles each and every bone

And under the metallic hiss,

Voices from some deep abyss.

Warnings shouted, barely heard.

Terror ringing in each word.

Muted, cut off suddenly

As I strive to hear the plea.

Yet, their dire message has unfurled.

Something comes, not of this world.

Something with a heart pitch black

Comes, and our cosmos will crack.

I am no prophet, nor do I

Understand the reasons why,

But I must warn humanity

Of what the static speaks to me.