Let Them Talk
In every town and every street, where idle minds and shadows meet,
There lives a breed of restless soul, who makes the lives of others whole—
By picking at the fraying threads, by planting seeds in neighbors' heads,
By weaving webs of "did you hear?" and whispering in a willing ear.
They gather 'round the morning brew, with nothing better left to do,
Than catalog a stranger’s sin and let the weary games begin.
They watch the way you walk the road, they weigh the burdens of your load,
They measure out your every step, and count the secrets that you’ve kept.
With eagle eyes and sharpened tongues, they draw the air into their lungs,
To blow a spark into a flame, and tarnish every honest name.
For in their world of gray and small, they love to watch a giant fall,
To find a crack within the glass and watch the fleeting shadows pass.
It matters not if truth be told, for stories turn from lead to gold,
When polished by a bitter heart that’s mastered every cruel art.
They’ll take a word you said in jest and put it to a grueling test,
Until it looks like something dark, a jagged stone, a burning spark.
They judge the clothes upon your back, and find the virtues that you lack,
While sitting on a throne of straw, identifying every flaw.
But why, you ask, do voices rise to dress the world in thin disguise?
Why spend the precious hours of day, in such a cold and hollow way?
It’s because the mirrors in their halls, are hung upon such narrow walls,
That they cannot bear to see the sight, of their own lack of inner light.
To talk of you is to forget, the things they haven't conquered yet,
The failures and the quiet fears, that echo through their passing years.
So let them whisper, let them gaze, within their self-constructed maze,
For while they dissect every move, you have nothing left to prove.
The wind may howl, the storm may break, but truth is not a thing they take.
Your character is built of stone, a kingdom that is yours alone,
And though their words may drift like smoke, they cannot break a sturdy oak.
The noise they make is merely sound, while you are standing on the ground.
Don’t bend your ear to catch the hum, or wonder where the rumors come,
For every second spent in doubt is what the gossip is about.
They want to see you flinch and fail, to see your vibrant spirit pale,
But if you walk with head held high, and look them squarely in the eye,
The power that they think they hold, will turn into a story old—
A fading echo, thin and weak, that shrivels when the righteous speak.
Let them talk of what they think, while you are standing on the brink,
Of greater things and brighter skies, far above their hollow lies.
For when the final curtain falls, and silence fills the empty halls,
The ones who lived, and loved, and grew, are those who stayed entirely true.
So let the busybodies pry, beneath the vast and open sky,
Keep moving forward, calm and fast—for silence has the word that's last.
