Words

By themselves, words are meaningless.
Empty.
They serve no purpose except to beguile, confuse and paradox.
Words have meaning only when they go hand in hand
With the deeds they promise.
Or threaten.

Save me your: I love you.
Spare me: Iím sorry.
Likewise your tea and sympathy.
Give me your threats if you desire,
But I will scoff at them
Until they fill with substance.

Words alone are lies, chimeras, ectoplasms;
Deeds are corporeal.

Hidden, or even most secret motivations may lurk fathoms deep
For the seemingly altruistic or terroristic act,
But do they matter?
Have they ever?
Will they ever?

No amount of vacuous apology can make redress or compensate
For one evil deed,
Neither can any number of verbal insults destroy
The inherent goodness of one noble act.

It is better to perform one single act of kindness
Than to spout a million words of good intent,
For deeds stand or fall on their own merit,
While all the fine words in the word can be washed away with
A solitary tear,
Or brushed aside with a slap from an unclenched fist.

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