The Knights Of The Savage Tongue

Their tongue’s the sharp blade seeking the softness
Between song and speech’s narrow rib gap:
A wispy spring rain and its cool finesse,
The raging storm’s merciless thunder clap.

Their industry flows from the Saxon axe,
Its birthright of dexterous strength and skill.
Through the tumultuous beauty it hacks
And steadily rolls like the watermill.
Their goals they’ll as likely cut as caress,
Their tongue’s the sharp blade seeking the softness.

Nuance and emphasis endlessly war,
Irony seeks to slip gravity’s grasp;
A stranger’s shadow seen under the door
And the gentle grass, where-in lies the asp.
All seek the unsay able to entrap
Between song and speech’s narrow rib gap.

There are legion pretenders to the art,
Those who would extol mediocrity.
Those who would select their words with a dart
And who’s only rule is obscurity.
A hammer is ill-fitted to express
A wispy spring rain and its cool finesse.

They are blacksmiths, shipwrights, cutters of stone;
At once ambassador and inciter.
It is they who rebel, they who enthrone:
Warrior set apart from rough fighter.
Each, in their way, in their words seek to map
The raging storm’s merciless thunder clap.