Poetry of the tongue

The Decisive Member

It begins in the dark, behind the ivory gate,
A muscle of salt and of heavy, hidden weight.
The smallest rudder for a ship so vast,
Building a future or burying the past.
If you want to guard the soul, you must guard the lips,
Before the spirit falters, before the anchor slips.
There is no middle ground, no quiet “in between,”
Only the harvest of the seeds that aren’t seen.
For the same soft flesh that whispers a prayer
Can strip a man’s honor and leave the bone bare.
It all starts with the tongue; it all ends in the dust,
A vessel of ruin or a vessel of trust.
Lord, seal the margins where the spirit might drain,
Let not my blessings be lost in the rain
Of careless words or the “leaking” of grace,
Let me hold my peace in this holy space.
For death and life are the fruit of the breath,
And the tongue is the master of life and of death.

©️ Deborah Seale 2026