Words Of Death

They come not with a clamor,

Nor with the fury of the storm,

But like a shadow slipping softly

Across the tired walls of dawn.

No sword can match their silence,

No fire burn as bright as they,

For death is hidden in the whisper

That folds the light away.

A word, a glance, a quiet pause,

A sentence dark and cold,

These gentle killers weave their webs

And shatter hearts untold.

Like autumn’s fading, brittle leaves,

They fall without a sound,

Invisible yet ever near,

Where grief and silence drown.

Beware the tongue that wounds unseen,

The jest that pierces deep,

For death is patient, crafting slow

The sorrow that we keep.

It’s not the bullet’s fiery flight,

Nor dagger’s gleaming edge,

But in the softest breath of speech,

That binds the final pledge.

The word that breaks a fragile trust,

The silence where love dies,

A look that carries quiet scorn,

Unspoken, but it lies.

They dwell in halls where laughter fades,

Where joy begins to weep,

In every cruel and careless phrase,

That cuts too deep to heal.

Yet death’s own words can sometimes heal,

When truth, though sharp, is shown—

A bitter medicine to the soul,

To free what’s overgrown.

A painful light that burns away

The shadows in the mind,

The call to face the deeper truth

That we have long declined.

The tongue that speaks in tender care,

Though harsh its lesson be,

Can guide the lost through darkest night

And set the spirit free.

But most of all, the words of death

Are those we never say,

The silence where the heart withdraws,

The love that slips away.

A hollow space between two souls,

Where warmth once used to grow,

Becomes a grave of frozen time,

Beneath the ice and snow.

We kill with absence just as sure

As with the sharpest sword,

For silence feeds the empty place

Where hope once soared.

How many wounds are hidden there,

In spaces left unfilled,

Where words of comfort might have been,

But cruel silence spilled?

The bitter quarrels left unresolved,

The grudges held so tight,

The final moments lost to pride,

Before the fading light.

And yet within this death of words,

There lies a sacred gift—

The chance to learn the fragile art

Of hearts that rise and lift.

To speak with care, to listen deep,

To weigh each syllable,

To know that words can build or break,

Can heal or make us fall.

O human tongue, so frail, so sharp,

A double-edged design,

A vessel for the soul’s own truth,

Or poison in its wine.

Remember this, the poet’s call,

The lesson ancient, wise:

To wield the word with humble heart,

Beneath the endless skies.

For death will come, and come to all,

But not alone with breath—

It rides upon the words we speak,

The silent words of death.

So tend the garden of your speech,

With gentle, careful hands,

For in each phrase, a seed is sown

To shape the shifting sands.

Will it bloom in love and light,

Or wither cold and bare?

The choice is ours to hold and keep,

With every whispered prayer.

I’ve seen the words that tore apart

The tender threads of kin,

A brother’s spite, a sister’s shame,

A father’s cold chagrin.

I’ve heard the silence fill the room

Where once was song and mirth,

Where walls now echo hollow grief,

And cradle quiet dearth.

Words are the stones we throw in fields,

That bruise the earth and sky,

Yet in the dust, new blooms arise,

When we choose to comply.

To speak the truth with gentle hands,

To bridge the chasms wide,

To find the words that heal and bind,

Not wound, nor mock, nor hide.

The ancient poets knew this well,

Their verses taught us pain—

How words could fall like gentle rain,

Or scorch like desert flame.

They told of love and loss entwined,

Of hope and cruel regret,

Of whispered prayers and bitter vows,

Of dawns we can’t forget.

So let us honor every breath

That passes through the lips—

A chance to give, a chance to break,

A dance on fragile ships.

The ships that sail on seas of speech,

Through storms of fear and grief,

Where every word becomes a wave,

That rocks the soul’s belief.

Be mindful, then, in what you say,

And what you leave unsaid,

For death’s own words may walk with you,

Long after life has fled.

They haunt the corners of the mind,

The spaces unexplored,

A silent verdict on the heart,

A never-ending sword.

Yet in the depth of words of death,

A paradox remains—

That sometimes death must come to clear

The path for life’s new veins.

To end the pain that clings like rust,

To shed the weight of lies,

To cut the ties that bind us down,

And teach the soul to rise.

So speak your words with fearless love,

With sorrow and with grace,

For in those words lies life and death—

A sacred, fragile place.

And if your words must bring the end,

Let them be kind and true,

For death in speech, when born of love,

Can birth the dawn anew.