I once found a $100 bill half frozen into the snow on a random stretch of sidewalk in a not-so-great neighborhood. It’s only now occurring to me that it was literally the coolest thing I’ve ever found because it was encased in ice and snow. I acknowledge it’s not so “cool” in the colloquial sense of the word.
“Sword” is “words” with a simple swap where the word leapfrogs its ass, and yet they are unrhymable with each other. That’s a word with some sort of voodoo magic.
But, if you think about it, writing is miraculous. In the scheme of gifts that nature grants, it is way out beyond left field. Encoding ideas and images in simple characters in a way that can evoke emotional or cognitive responses in readers is kind of a superpower. (As is reading.)
“Nazi” and other terms used to hyperbolize the villainy of those who are, at most, moderately villainous. It allows people to dismiss – rather than debate – beliefs with which they are in disagreement, while – simultaneously – it diminishes understanding of the extremes of horror the world has known.
Language can be complex, reason may sprawl, And words don't always seem to point the way. Extremes aren't always clear and distinct. Overhauls are not always an upgrade. The gist may dwell in a key phrase or two -- Those words the whip that make it race or stay. Though multitudinous words are in place They must do more than roar, hiss, or bray. Overuse of the whip exhausts the horse -- Keep the impulse to whip too much at bay.
Close your eyes and listen with care. Turn all your attention inside. Let your soul ride the Eight Borders At a galloping stride.
Inner space brightens, becomes more Compact, as one views the expanse. Words pour forth to cleanse the soul, As the Six Arts lend a fragrance.
Float, swim, and dive in the abyss, Heedful for words as it all soaks in... Sometimes the right word must be hooked, And hauled up where it can be spoken. But, other times, words are like birds, That fly themselves out of the clouds, To be downed by one swift arrow -- Quite willingly freed of their shrouds.
Mine for lines lost ages ago -- Rhymes unsung for ten centuries. Thank tight buds for the sweet flowers That they - soon enough - will be.
See past and present concurrently, At once, touch mountain and sea.