Nothing feels half as sweet as wielding a finely honed word.
Steel and iron are of no use to me when I can bring battle-bled soldiers to their knees with a single sentence.
Releasing a well-aimed arrow can not compare to the adrenaline rush of unleashing a battalion of bitter words on an army outfitted in ebony armor.
The swing of a thousand swords does not deal nearly as much joy as showering a deserving party in good news.
Yes, words are my weapons.
But they are also my poison.
Paper tears
but cotton snares-
and like cotton your words
cling to the dust in the air,
sucking the silt and sand
close to its fleece,
and slurring wet promises
slick with grease.
Cotton clings
but paper stings-
and like paper your lips
shred sour notes that sing,
bleeding your words of
all wealth and truth,
and ripping the life from
the throats of the youth.
A word
is a double-edged sword,
for it rings clear and true,
but stings with
a red smile.
Me? I am
no wielder of hammers-
I seek not to shriek rusted
blade against blade
beneath the shadow
of the gallows.
I deliver
my attack with callous lips
and loose my barrage
as grave silence
glowers on.
I am
loved by some, and loathed
by most, but my duty
beneath the blight
remains the same.
This battle
is not one of arms and axes,
but one of reading lips
and sometimes
reading minds.
I am
good at playing the part
of the fading ghost who
haunts abandoned
battlefields and
beds atop tombs.
They need
not see me, so long
as they listen, for
I forge and fight with
the deadliest weapon-
a word.
Stellular Scribe 