Words is an anagram of Sword

But a sword can cut off your face, whereas words can only be tat­tooed onto it. A sword can be plunged into a stone for a nas­cent king to remove. Words can be writ­ten on the stone to warn the king that what he is doing is impossible to mere flesh, and there­fore he should per­haps won­der about his bones and his mean­ing and his poise. A sword is metal through and through, while words lack any mettle what­so­ever. A sword car­ries with it a his­tory. Words were born yes­ter­day and are already look­ing old bey­ond their years. A sword can be sharpened until merely a brief glimpse of it under bright white light can maim the eyes and blind bind blind­side the body, both the body of water and the body politic. A word (two of a word, three of a word, four, five, six and seven) is blun­ted through any kind of mis­use, or some under or much over. You can­not mis­use a sword. You can­not over­use a sword. Or under­use it. A length of metal, honed to death, is pure in pur­pose. You are also pure in pur­pose. You are sexu­ally honed to death. You are a flex­ing muscle, trapped in spasm. You are a body on ice and elec­tric, gif­ted in scratches. You are a sub­lim­ated flesh wound. You are a sub­lime being. This is medi­cinal punc­tu­ation. Be safe. Open wide so I can see. Swal­low your word without chew­ing, so I can appre­ci­ate the move­ment of your throat. Feel bet­ter and let’s cel­eb­rate by tear­ing at the crust, devour­ing syl­lables, slavering.