The words whirl around,
meant to be like falling leaves.
Somehow we've mis-taken them,
picking them up, like rocks.
A stoning of one another,
thrown instead of softly falling.
A way to hurt instead of play,
a way to declare righteousness.
We forget the ability to play,
to let go, to let them dazzle us.
Words were meant for healing,
not to throw and wound.
We need to find the glorious
center where the colors whirl.
And we are caught in the
diversity of colors we see.
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