that voice

that voice, my god, it’s boring
an endless monotone
so torturous
to each of us
it cuts straight to the bone

those syllables, like water
they deluge drop by drop
though dull and plain
they still cause pain
as they have yet to stop

a whining, droning, nightmare
composed of strange white noise
a sleep machine
whose set routine
inflicts as it annoys

whatever it is saying
its message has been drowned
the thought’s last breath
its throes of death
awash in all that sound

so here we sit, now waiting
for misery to end
an audience
whose common sense
that voice so long offends

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