The Lips Of A Fool A grunt, a breeze, a blunt old sneeze, So the fool's words are empty, like wind. A scorn, an insult, with a heart-torn result, So the fool's tongue is deadly, like poison. I must surely keep watch what I'm sayin', are my words like wind or a knife? For "The mouth of a fool is his ruin, and his lips are a snare for his #life." (Proverbs 18:7 NET)

O Thumb, Ye Modern Pen, Ye Dripping wet and tangy, Are thee fingers dipped in dye. In cavern walls all-moldy, Men doth paint and leave to dry. Then men doth learn of fire, Of forge, of steel, of wheel, of words. Then ink doth dance on paper, "the pen is mightier than the swords!" But men doth learn of more, Of circuits, chips, and strands of wire. Then pens prevailed no more; Thumbs dance on screens of great desire.

Polymorphic Unearthed. Deprived of peace. My resting place disturbed by a gorging drill. My self awakened from slumber. An iron straw drinks and gulps our brethren; to chambers that further do us separation, spew and spit. I find myself boiled, cooked, and spun around. Robbed of my former self, once black slick and shiny now a dull, opaque goop. Refined, they say. Outfitted to serve a greater good. Parts of me shall bring water to the thirsty. Parts of me carry food for the hungry. Parts of me form appliances the skilled shall wield, also for good. Then they tipped a barrel and spilled a sludge of oh-so-fouls and toxins upon my parts. "Additives to aid you in your task." - makes me wonder. And now my mind split in a billion pieces, oh how odd. I sequester water, carry food, form appliances. But I see the really thirsty, the awfully hungry, the hopelessly needy of the shelter and comfort that my self can help put into being - oh how very far away they are from where I am? Am I deceived, the promise broken? Enslaved to withstand years in musty racks? Then comes a moment of glory, a short burst, a spur, a moment in time. An instance of frivolous use. Then off to the dump. Banished to stay for an eternity floating, lingering. Whereabouts unknown, condition uncared for. Locked in this state, unable to return home. Mother, she sent agents. They failed to free me. On my pieces her bigger children choke, become strangled - have I just become a silent agent of death? All of my self, now in different shapes. In different forms. Spread across the land, longing for home, but denied. Am in stasis, am not resting, yet I can not say am really alive.