Words

Whirling, whooping wheels of woe…

For so oft they be uttered

Their essence few know.

A mission

Giving not discourse nor enlighten…

Nay, 'tis of wretched devices

To estrange, demean, and enfrighten.

Love

The pure libation of transcendence

Now a hated name

A loathsome utterance of decadence.

Whom?

Whom will stride forth, accepting the gavel

Of linguistic preserver in this colloquium battle,

Lest words become weapons, people marked cattle

That wander alone in a modern day Babel.