Tongue is a factory
of sweet words
and sense of comfort
But possessed by evil,
it is a sword,
sometimes a poison
I've been watching it
for quite a time
and it has killed souls
It whispered discouragements
to hands that paint and write
It blew cold air of death
to passions that burn
It drew periods to poems
that were yet to be finished
And made
the photographer's eyes see
only the negative photographs.
