The tongues of men,
those gilded weapons of glib,
the strokes seem to fly sure and true,
with those blades which will never dull,
till a thousand souls they have kulled

the praises they utter,
seem to be written on the sands of time,
never worth more to them than a lost dime,
even though they seem to set a thousand hearts a flutter,
for they are the sharpest tool of all,
the sweet poison which may cause,
yet a thousand innocents to fall,

The critiques though seem to be easier still,
the vilifications easier to come by,
they though are hewn on the stones of eternity,
and it takes a true mason to erode the marks away,
symbols though they are of our failings,
blunt weapons they are which leave their mark,
scars on us which must remain reminders stark

we must learn to recognise these
in all their many shades,
for it isnt the naked weapon which is deadly,
but one which strikes without a whisper,
as it cuts through the air swift and true,
for the blade which may be deflected,
may be deflected still,
but the cloaked dagger will find its mark true....