Words as weapons are a crude sort of stake
that rip and tear at the strongest of skin;
poisonous tips devour the heart within
leaving hungry wounds that no salve can slake.
But when touch is given of which you take,
blood ceases to boil, softens thick to thin.
Brain contracts muscles, the body full in;
eyes deduce intent, genuine from fake.
Now add water to sand, maintain your hold
on a whispered promise not overheard,
a song being sung in the dead of night.
Stoke the fire in the kiln, heat up the mold.
Collect silent letters, press into word.
Charcoal on paper your weakness, your light.
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