They burn like fire,
they cut like a knife.
They sting like ice,
and they stick like scars to the heart.

We give them away freely, and,
as with most things there is no taking them back.
When carried they weigh us down as lead on our feet.
Yet we deal them out like playing cards in a child’s game.
They come on the wind, a foul wind to which we want to turn up our noses,
but which we can’t help but breath as it was out last.

They burn like fire,
they cut like a knife
they sting like ice,
and they stick as scars to our heart.

They knock us down like a wave from the ocean,
and drag us under as a hidden tide,
before we know it they have pulled us in and drowned us.
before we know it we are buried alive.

They burn like fire,
they sting like ice,
they cut like a hot knife.
And they stick like scars to our heart.

They seep into covered ears as a river over stones,
stones smoothed, weakened, by years rushing water.
And they drip from tongues as hail to the ground,
where they pelt the unwitting victims below.

They burn like fire,
they cut like a knife.
They sting like ice,
and they stick as scars to our ever beating heart.