words are just words, spewed from a mouth
base and predictable, they try to resound
words come in cycles, like geese flying south
falling like rain, from the clouds to the ground,
all around when you look, all around when you don’t
words can be pretty, like presents in bows
words can be vile, a bad taste that won’t
disappear from your tongue, the disgust will compose
a residual feeling that slithers and slides
but sometimes the words are lovely and kind
as safe and unchanging as the changing of tides
more often than not, though, the speaker is blind
to the cleansing effect words have on a mood
to the death of a war, or the dawn of a feud