We ponder them,
Those words we’ve spoken.
Did they need saying?
Was it my place to tell them?
And yet the irony is,
We ponder them if we don’t.
Perhaps words should be spoken,
Short lived upon their release.
Instant gratification of a story told.
But should good words not be written?
Crafted in pencil or in ink?
So as to be recounted upon a time yet to be.