Words

Those words again.
They haven’t lost their sting.
No matter how routinely they’re heard.
Even eons after their existence is uttered
The painful echo continues to ring.
Even said insincerely, they carelessly swing.

The whisper in stillness, the cold-hearted thief --The sword that comes at night.
The sharp blade strikes at dawn when mistakes reawaken,
When the fragrant peace of dreams has faded.
Syllables laced with coarse hatred, wrath and dread.
Murdered by words,
Death has come at last in the end.

Oh, the power of the little tongue.
To curse or to praise. To bring death or breathe life.   
The two sided coin that can heal and maim,
Like sun or fire bring warmth or pain.
Words are the fire that can warm the winter soul,
Or the manic inferno that scorches it whole.                  

Those words again.
They haven’t lost their ring.
No matter how scarcely they’re heard.
Long after they’re spoken the kind tone remembered,
The soothing echo continues to sing.
Even casually spoken they yield a refreshing spring

The soft whisper clasped in the night. The lock that holds hope inside.
The promise remembered with the coming of dawn,
Fear is banished, courage inspired.
Syllables adorned with assurance, strength and dreams.
Life exhaled through words
Rebirth has come; life is amended.

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