A Fragile Secret

They say the world turns on words.  

But sometimes speech is a wildfire,  

cracking twigs before the next breath,  

leaving nothing untouched or unnamed.  

You do not have to be the flame.  

You can be the lantern instead,  

holding light carefully, protecting it  

from being knocked over by a gust.  

Someone, somewhere, is still catching up,  

still piecing together fragments of truth,  

waiting for clarity to find its voice.  

Truth is not a race to the finish line.  

When we sling stories like stones,  

they bruise more than just the surface.  

Be still. Silence has its own cadence,  

a rhythm wiser than quick retorts.  

Words can be seeds or splinters.  

Choose what grows, what decays,  

but don't let impatience bloom wildfire  

before the facts are fully unhidden.