Beyond The Murmurs Poem by Frankline Shem O.

Did you hear what happened?

A tragedy, they say, condolences they sent,
But not as many as the critiques—
The city whispers, they say he's lost,
'You can see it in his eyes, the way his hands shake.'
Caught up in the city's pull, a boy on drugs.
'I tell you, he's gone too far, he's drowning in the street's haze, '
They say, 'The boy's addicted, nothing can save him now.'
'Send him away, to the village, to start over,
Far from the temptation, the clubs, the smoke.'
But did it work? Did it truly work?
Why does the darkness keep growing inside the tunnel?

Did you hear what happened?

The villagers speak in hushed tones,
The latest tea served by the women at the village square—
Hands weave stories into the wind, voices low, eyes darting around.
The city tongues wag—'It's the drugs, ' they sneer,
But they scoff, 'Fools, can't you see? This is a curse.'
By the roadside, elders shake their heads.
'Take him to the seer, make an offering,
Appease the gods before it's too late.'
'It's the evil eye, ' they murmur,
His soul has been cursed, no doubt.
'Perhaps someone looked at him wrong, '
They say, 'He's under a spell, he's been marked.'
But did it work? Did it truly work?
Why does the coldness spread deeper in the tunnel?

The church speaks in solemn tones—
Of sin, repentance, and salvation,
Their words heavy, not meant to be questioned.
The priest says, 'Only prayers can save him,
His soul is lost in darkness, it's the devil's grip.'
A hush, then murmurs, then voices rise—
Not mine, never mine.
'Bring him to the light, cleanse him of his sins.'
'He must repent, his heart must turn back to God.'
But he remains lost, trapped inside himself,
His mind too far gone, the darkness consuming him.
The prayers feel like whispers in the wind.
But did it work? Did it truly work?
Why does the light feel so far away in the tunnel?

Did you hear what happened?

We thought we knew better—
The bitter herbs from the seer,
The prayers from the church,
The whispers—
Yet, with every accusation, every prayer, every bitter herb,
He only slipped further away—
And now, the sterile hospital walls hum with quiet.
'His mind is ill, ' they say.
Doctors speak in measured tones,
'Let the medicine do its work.'
Pills, treatments, hands that try to fix what they cannot see.
And I can't help but wonder—
Could this have been the answer all along?
Was it never about drugs, or curses, or sin?
Yet the air no longer hums with whispers and fear.
But did it work? Did it truly work?
Why does it suddenly feel warmer and brighter in the tunnel?