This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.

What may cause a heart to break,
Or sometimes raise the dead?
What loathsome thing can crawl inside
Or rescue from dark dread?

A weapon singing through the mist,
A spear hits home, and hard.
It drives the point and shaft in deep,
A shining, poisoned shard.

A lullaby of sweet delights,
Confection to the soul;
It rocks a babe to gentle rest,
From dusk to dawn, sleeps whole.

The rising sun of purple robes
That warms the frosty earth;
The messenger with which dead plants
Are brought to fruitful birth.

A lover's kiss and tender touch,
And lusty, grasping game;
The sweet surrender of one's love
That drives away their shame.

The blackened sky of thunder clouds
Roll through this fearsome voice,
And forces weak to low despair,
No light, relief, or choice.

One's character and nature true,
Are shown in that which girds
Our heart and soul, released from lips:
'T is simply, spoken words.

For power, restless, conquering,
Suffuses night and day.
A universe, destroyed or built,
Can rest on what we say.

This poem only available on Stories Space. If you are reading it elsewhere, it has been stolen.