I relish the words of friend and foe;
tuck them for my own mastery.
Letters can never know their worth
how their groupings hurt, help, kill or sustain
But, once met, they stain.
Even words said through mirth,
giggle to embed a memory,
then lock in to repose;
But those lent in foul birth,
Offensive to no remedy,
Settle in to corrode.
Letters do better to refrain,
From words not meant for positive gain.
Scars they may unearth,
while demons dance on delivery
of what injury will impose.
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