Words, like weathered stones, can chafe and wear,
A torrent of syllables, heavy and bare.
They tumble and crash with a force unseen,
Carving deep canyons in the serene.
Harsh whispers cut through the silence of night,
Leaving scars unseen, out of plain sight.
Yet within their edges, rough and unkind,
Lies the power to challenge, change the mind.
For words wielded wild, without a care,
Can cleave the heart open, lay the soul bare.
But let us not forget their strength, their girth,
For even the roughest words can give birth,
To ideas that rise, that soar and take flight,
Transforming the dark to realms of light.
So handle with care, this tool, this sword,
And respect the roughness of every word.
