They can have sharp edges
that wound on contact, some cuts
so deep they leave lasting scars.
They can get stuck in the throat
until you feel you can no longer
breathe, no longer cry out for help.
They can lie there, an
aggregate always acreting
and yet rejecting any meaning.
Or they can, carefully chosen
present great beauty, offer
hope, promise freedom.
They are the currency of poets
and writers, and they chronicle
our history and our lives.