Do words tire

Of being twisted

Bent, used as wire

To support ideas

Of which they want

No part?

Are words just neutral marble

On which the sculptor might

Bring something to life

Led by the puppeteer

Of inner desire

That plays through sinews

Of muscle and flesh

To guide his hand

Across each crevice?

A team of stampeding stallions

Whose power is rampant

Tamed by the warrior,

the farmer, and the racer

Are words

Only harnessed by skill

And used equally

For war, work, or pleasure?

Or do words, with a life of their own, fight with

the man who wields truth? 

Do they stay cold and dormant 

As dictators, liars, oppressors 

Abuse them, 

And monger fear? 

When reunited with 

Those, who in truth, 

Speak with no deceit

Do they restore their full power

And become the weapon 

Of which Cicero spoke?