I craft my words as fallen flowers,
Pressed and dried, tucked neatly away.
While you hurled yours, a sharpened shower,
The archer’s ever proud display.
And your pointed words, with eloquence,
Pierced many standing in their path.
Yet you noticed none that fell, nor since
Have let the toll abate your wrath.
I hide my words, not because I bleed,
Nor due to spite, but knowing this:
Though some flowers are just common weeds,
My other blooms are poisonous.
And with all your verbal weaponry,
You have no shield from such as these.