Words cast two shadows here, and on most ev'ry ear one black and sharp-edged in its flavoring the other translucent and forever wavering, like heat haze. Words are weapons are toys, are prizes are laden with reprises are nothing but words. My words smile     in brief flashes like sunlight glinting from a knife-edge,    slashes     (And there is so much else that is knife-like     about words) alwaysspitoutpeircingwishihadnotsaidthatwhathaveidone           ...I'm so sorry, lovely one I blame it on the words for they cannot convey, they betray But those are just more words. They can not mend open wounds that have no end, nor do they soak the stain they deliver, as barbarous is the listened word with meaning thought instead of heard. My angry words are alive with skin pale as silty smoke and eyes sharp as aged wine; cruel personality, whose shape and outline carry no relationship to the body they wear ...and tangible,    like old velvet. They slight you, and I swear they shun interpretation, they would not allow manipulation, or the relentless stutter would not I not stumble the path of voice would I not tumble to make hurt of you this way Or to bruise your tender ear, which is nothing more than my tunnel to your gentle mind in which travel these words, and every kind of cry that I would utter, or should I mutter a curse under spiteful breath and regret such curse until death, for it is not my wish to hear your pain carried by the beasts we call words.

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