What a price to pay to say "well said"
For all great phrasing comes from great tumult
And gladness, sadness, joy are all but fuel
As the "sayers" translate thought to word

They are as hunters, patiently in wait
For a great stirring deep within their being
Emotion wildlife rustling the trees
The game that does not recognize the game

Strategic are these hunters, clever souls
Whose precision cannot be repeated
Miners for the gold within their hearts
Exploring, exploiting their perceptions

And yet, it is but great coincidence.
They do not mean to feel, but still accept
The ludic, accidental inquiries
Subpoenas to their creativity

How much does it cost, a wondrous phrase?
The charge is pain, or love in great amounts
For words upon the page can but reflect
The bittersweetness of their author's id