The voices sound, the words collide,

Arouse and stir up ire.

The choice is ours, who’ve heard, to rise above,

Or flounder in the fire.


Their breath is rich, and satisfies

A mass of famished ears,

Whose peckishness facilitates the glut,

Which faction fast endears.


They cross the winds at every cusp,

Innervate every guess.

They prosper in a heavy flux, disturbed,

Alive in emptiness.


Ignited by a fearful thought,

And stoked by hues of pique,

They thrive by commandeering common sense.

They choke truth with belief.


Their tongues, pandemic, spit excess.

Their lips, contagious blight.

They pluck strands of self-confidence too well.

They strip sagacious sight.


Words twine a tangled paradox;

Their power is their stain.

The minds that pain to pass them off as truth

Must palter for their aim.


For righteousness belongs to none,

To none, the right to speak.

To fight for gospels only blunts, abrades,

It crumbles insight’s peak.


To hear, one cannot obviate;

But listen circumspect.

And stare the thoughts that permeate with care,

And give them not respect.


Until you perch on steady feet,

Let none employ your crutch.

Let willful work forever be your end.

Let struggle be your punch.


When voices light on currents thick,

When air teems with pretense,

The choice to fight its lurid, vicious breath,

To bear its leaning press,

To cloister in its turbid grip,

Or tear its venal breast,

Is the choice determinant of how you stand in truth’s respect.

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