In the company of voices

"When did it all begin?"    
     
They visited when the world stooped into a harsh stillness;    
the wind was stripped of its whistle, tearing through treetops    
without a whisper.    
     
A sinner was released from his haven, can you feel the drums?      
Mountains of percussion that fell as thrashing waves,      
melting into tides of inhales and exhales.      
I couldn't hear a sound.    
     
They sounded bitter before they opened their mouths,      
telling of death-defying eyes crouching in the dark.      
I often hear sleeping beauties that hold their loss      
of conscience in an iron grip, with all the pitiful    
determination of a suicidal woman.      
     
Sometimes they mirror an eclipse of light with      
narrating sandpaper voices, grating against the air.    
There is only one thing, doctor, which I don't understand.    
If this is the most company I've ever had,    
why do I feel so lonely?