Updated: Oct 22, 2020
Another short poem, this one originally for Kvasir. Somewhere along the line, it became a little more of a commentary on humanity's relationship to storytelling, to the written word, and how hope can prevail even in the face of death.
Words (used correctly or not)
have a certain power, a certain lust.
Words heal, or hurt. Create, or destroy,
and no words more so than those contained
within a story, within a verse,
within those tales that inspire and teach
and strike fear within king and commoner.
Words are a well of knowledge, a mead,
a honey, a gold. Sought by all and
wielded by many. Knowledge, like words,
sits heavy on the wrong tongue.
It festers and rusts, ‘til the need for more
makes beasts out of men. But a story
in the right telling can write a wrong undone;
or at the least, remember. And in memorandum,
powerful words will live on.