How many words are wasted?
Day in and out?
Used once.
Or worse, recycled into meaninglessness.
Or hate?
Meaninglessness doesn't look so bad now, does it?
Or heard?
Because hate, when heard,
Is a horror of familiarity
And the utter impossibility of how often it comes back.
Or is never gone.
The words waiting, innocent in themselves, of intent.
But in the mouths of men, and worse, their minds.
Uttered.
Blood spills, tears,
Denials are made,
But the festering's unbound, again.
Better each word be meaningless, unknown,
Unspoken, but men are so proud of how
Words pass on, man to child and child and child,
And continue to serve.
Hate follows.
(This space is empty for the best of reasons.)