The Whispering Tongue

In the quiet hours, dark and deep,

When dreams take root and shadows creep,

A voice calls out, low and sly—

A tongue that speaks where spirits lie.

Its words are wet, twisted, and cold,

Stories ancient, grimly told,

Of secrets buried, bones unclean,

Of things unseen and thoughts obscene.

It slithers close, against your ear,

A hissing sigh you dread to hear.

Its syllables slink, each breath a curse,

Binding fears that will only grow worse.

The tongue licks lies and coils tight,

Pulls your mind into the night,

Till words drip thick, and your voice is gone—

It speaks for you, and you are drawn.

So beware the hour when it’s near,

That whispering tongue you strain to hear.

For once it finds your willing head,

Its words are yours, and yours are dead.