Words

The innocuous, petty strand of letters

What good would they do?

They drain my eyes, weave the lies,

And paint my heart blue.

By and by, when they fall,

Raw and roaring, they devolve,

Don’t plunder the streets red;

With blue ink, they bloodshed.

Leave marks of knots and crosses

Carefully stained, I keep them in the hall of fame;

My hands are anyway, better adorned with them,

Than scars I used to tame.

Look, my words are a mirror,

To everything around;

Letters mould themselves to create perfect chaos,

And silently scream out loud.

Words, you say, what good are they,

To guns and swords in any way?

My weapon fills the vacant,

Strip the world naked, 

And survives even when your weapons decay.

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