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Apr 2013
I am master of words.
I command, and they march forth
To do my bidding.
When the battle drums sound,
They arm themselves with slender swords,
Delicate and deadly,
Designed to slip through every hole
In an opponent's defenses
And leave wicked wounds.
When they come to the bargaining table,
They don their smoothest silver
And enter into the intricate steps
Of a dance that leads them in circles,
Drawing slowly closer
To their true purpose.
When they must be kept at bay
They find themselves facing walls
Tall and strong
Behind which they can find no exit.
I am master of words,
Until I fall into those endless chasms
Set in twin blue-green seas
Framed by milk.
The swift and deadly swords
Become sticks in the hands of children.
The dancers stumble and stutter
Over once-graceful steps.
Walls crumble, and every errant thought
Now seizes on the rich supply
And flings the words forth,
A hairsbreadth out of reach
Of my grasping hands,
Now just too slow to ****** them back.
With a single glance, the tables turn
In a heartbeat
And the words
Become master of me.
Devon Leonel
Written by
Devon Leonel
  677
   Trevor Gates and Gary Muir
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