Words are an art

Words are an art.

Although taking on a new trait

It has become a callous science as of late.

Only its mad scientists believe they can revive

A poet its doctor, language the sickness

Integrity the cure, its hope to survive.

Diligence its justice, rhythm its mercy. 

What do you make of it?

Do you see consequence, or casual expressions?

The lack of answers leaves only questions.

The tragedy is too many doctors, little mercy…less justice and no integrity. 

Lost all its heart, where I don’t know

Words were an art.