the death of a rose

Words are cruel friends. They like to use you, (like here) to get out their own tongues, half-recognisable to the human ear. When I need them for anything of social consequence, they seem to evade me. Might as well give in to their scrapings on the back of my throat. I don't have much of a choice, really. They squeezed everything else out of my ears. But, alas, we are intertwined spirits of the same speck, so I do have a soft spot for them. Give em heaven or hell, I don't mind. They seem to like both.