My Question to You

From my inside-out...

I wrestle with words, tangled again and again in their grip of rebellion. When the sentence finally submits to me it is nothing like the thing with which I first battled. In truce it is so much more. I believe I have mastered each word, but the danger of becoming captivated by their willfulness and sucked into their universe of expression is ever present. In uninhibited spilling, they fall, float or fly as I fight to hold my ground amidst their multitude. They believe it is I who must be subdued, for in the end I wield the power for which they vie. Once released by tongue or hand, it is I who must ultimately bear the consequence of their voiced opinions. Have I spoken life or death? The crowd of Webster's subjects do not care, they only want to say something. Have I welcomed those of noble definition to lead? Are they my gift to you or my weapon? This is for you alone to decide. With a deep breath and a fresh sheet of possibility, the dual for the next sentence begins.