Words can be as sharp as you need.

Fashioned into a point enough to draw blood.

Taken along hunting for a chosen target.

Polished until it is sure to hit.

Closing in until there is nowhere else to go.

Leaving the user as a victor in the end.

***

Words can also be soft.

Isolating against the cold.

Curled up in front of crackling fire on a blanket.

Relaxing as a steam bath in the middle of winter.

Used lift other people into better health.

A medicine for the soul.

***

The real truth is that words are clay.

The shape mine to build.

Each groove and corner perfectly intentional.

Meaningless apart but together whole.

As artful or useful as I can envision.

A tool as a means to an end.

***

I do not always succeed.

Like every other artist, I make mistakes.

Sometimes the clay collapses to the floor.

Doomed to fail even before I finish.

Other times it cracks at the end as technique betrays me.

Scattered to dust under every passing foot.