In the streets of admission the Mimes think,
Though words flow not, from their tongue.
It is through the Sting of these syllables,
That the chattle of war may be won.
They bring down the mightiest of man and beast,
Care not for your stature of imminence,
When they are flung with a venomous pose
There is no difference for innocence.
The bane of the earth, a loose tongued gossip,
Cares little for serenity or truth,
Their job is to stir the proverbial Kettle
And with poisonous arrows they shoot.
Naught do they care for the life they’re destroying
Or who might be caught in harms way,
Their only delight by the dark of the night
Is to think of the things they can say.
They sit in the window with eyes slitted narrow,
Watching as life passes by.
Then taking a scenario, weave it with passion,
And then comes the birth of the lie.
Next day with purpose they whisper and cackle,
To each easy ear they can find.
Then soon someones life lays open and broken.
Their bones to the dirt they will grind.
If like the mimes your words were weighted,
If you considered their true strength and might,
Would you still feel you really must say them?
Or discard them, before giving flight?
Many’s the lives been destroyed by a rumor,
Many true loves have been left alone,
Before you repeat, what is fact or fiction,
You must decide, if it needs to be told.
© Judy Sammons
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