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The Storm of Words

The arrows of words, sharp and unyielding,
Have turned me into a sieve from all sides.

Poisoned tips—venomous, relentless—
hissing as they pierce,
numbing everything they touch.
Devoid of feeling, meaning, sense,
they fly in every direction.
without aim, without path,
chaos swirling like a tornado.

Laying me on bed of arrows,
sycophants, fools, self-absorbed,

Surrounding on all sides
flaunting their might.
Which arrow inflicted the wounds?
Which one applied the healing balm?
A numb body – the most unaware,
All senses rendered inactive.


Some scavenge for meaning;
some unroll the scrolls of faith.
Others promise dreams of progress,
or polish the empty vessels of knowledge.
I see it all—
yet no wrinkle mars my brow,
no smile graces my lips.
Only darting pupils,
tracking countless flying arrows.


Somewhere, a pliant bow hides,
a quiver unseen,
spraying senseless volleys—
like raindrops dripping,
each one multiplying,
falling to the ground,
only to leap up anew.
Layer by layer, they pierce deeper,
growing fiercer still.

-----------------------------

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