Who am I to neglect
the sole purpose of the written word?
Only the grace of Heaven knows.
The words that give birth to a mighty nation
but are slain by the heart of the hopeless below.
Yet are they so empty?
‘Tis something that evades
the tempest of a hurricane
but, in turn, is it’s foolish creator.
The hypocrite’s apology,
is it yet unheard?
As the words are as cold as ice.
Be it the same as a heartfelt lover
who’s words are affectionately embraced?
Do the words mean nothing
but that of the useless?
Are these words a trick
conspiring against me?
For they are phrases that are used by all.
Or are they the light in the dark?
The sweetness that stretches from a rose in bloom.
One cannot tell how one speaks
from the trickery of the written word.
But who are we to say
if it be a hypocrite or a lover
from naught but a written word.