It’s funny, isn’t it, how the mouth decides our worth,
How syllables can crown or curse our birth.
A silver tongue, though clothed in mortal guise,
Can sell you truth, or better, sell you lies.
Each word’s a blade, and sharpened with finesse,
It cuts through doubt, through logic, through distress.
Some wield it soft, in sonnets made for pleasure,
While others carve the soul and call it leisure.
We feast on phrases, flavored, rich, ornate
The gourmand’s ear finds rhetoric on its plate.
A compliment, mere sugar to the brain,
A single slip, a symphony of pain.
To know a tongue is leverage,close at hand
A passport past what silence once had planned.
For language is the threshold we invoke,
Yet every lock it opens dares provoke.
Will your words bring balm, or poison to the heart?
Will wit ignite our laughter, or tear our tender truths apart?
For language, our most fragile and most fearsome art
A single sharpened phrase can make the heaviest doorway part.
Yk