Words... By and large. |
Their tongue’s the sharp blade seeking the softness Between song and speech’s narrow rib gap: A wispy spring rain and its cool finesse, The raging storm’s merciless thunder clap. Their industry flows from the Saxon axe, Its birthright of dexterous strength and skill. Through the tumultuous beauty it hacks And steadily rolls like the watermill. Their goals they’ll as likely cut as caress, Their tongue’s the sharp blade seeking the softness. Nuance and emphasis endlessly war, Irony seeks to slip gravity’s grasp; A stranger’s shadow seen under the door And the gentle grass, where-in lies the asp. All seek the unsay able to entrap Between song and speech’s narrow rib gap. There are legion pretenders to the art, Those who would extol mediocrity. Those who would select their words with a dart And who’s only rule is obscurity. A hammer is ill-fitted to express A wispy spring rain and its cool finesse. They are blacksmiths, shipwrights, cutters of stone; At once ambassador and inciter. It is they who rebel, they who enthrone: Warrior set apart from rough fighter. Each, in their way, in their words seek to map The raging storm’s merciless thunder clap. |