Toxic words,
scribbled and whispered
in the wind,
deflect the light
before they detonate.
We are all shattered
stained glass windows,
battered collateral damage
of ignorance
hate
and other misguided missiles,
mincing words,
taking sides,
drawing lines,
melting time
like a transposed piece of surrealistic art.
I have felt their edge
flow through my fingers,
each typed keystroke a knife
that cuts both ways.
We thrust our words like ancient swords
battling untamed and tenured squabbles
in our grasp of entitled liberation
seeking only jaundiced justice,
unviolated exemptions
until we cross the line
and get lost,
deleted, blocked, or locked in jail
and someone kindly posts our bail.
Can you taste the color of the invisible wind
as the silver moon and vagabond stars align?
Or does silence pierce the night?
Even buried
in darkness,
toxic words never die.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
