  Voices of the Damned A gray vision of some tomorrow rests within my frame of mind, Guiding the way to an eventual victory but hinting at some unforeseen defeat. It tells of a reckoning to come - not soon, not here, not now; And whispers the price of failure will not be one easily or cleanly paid. The voices continue to suggest a plan to ensure some measure of success And the echoes tingle of stark fear, raw emotion stretched bare on a stake. A sudden furious burst of colour rips across the mindscape, Screaming like a motorcycle down and empty highway of a promise, a hope, a way. The burst is gone as quickly as it came, leaving in the mind a stark contrast to the gray, Having torn something from the environment, rendering it poorer for the taking. The gray returns deeper than before, permeating to previously unknown depths, A somehow more wan and bleak shade of its prior incarnation. The whispers slowly return, perhaps scared off like pigeons when the cat pounces, Cautiously picking their way back after the cause of worry is gone, Slowly reasserting themselves, strutting around and preening, Assuring themselves that nothing can harm them and that they're important and wanted. The voices grow louder in unison, mounting in intensity and feeling, Screaming "I'll never be free of you, but you'll never be free of me."      
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