A Light Hand, Well Placed

I am not given to thunder—

nor to the blunt parade of sound

that lesser men mistake for force.

No.

A lighter touch will serve.

A word—

well met—

may travel farther

than a shout loosed in haste.

You see, good sir,

there is an art to measure—

to know when silence

leans heavier than speech.

I do not spend freely.

Each line—

kept close,

then offered—

as coin of proper weight.

And if it lands—

(as oft it does)—

it does not bruise.

It alters.

A turn of thought,

a shift unseen,

till what once stood firm

finds itself… reconsidered.

Call it wit, if you must.

Though I make no claim to charm.

Call it craft—

and you come nearer.

For I would rather place one note true

than ring a hundred hollow.

So mark me plain—

I have no quarrel with noise.

I simply have no use for it.