Souls are delicate, like threads of mist, They bend with sorrow, they break with a twist. Words strike like stones, careless and cold, Cracking the quiet where secrets unfold. A whisper can wound, a silence can burn, Once spoken, the harsh ones never return. They echo inside like a haunted refrain, Leaving behind invisible pain. So handle with care the hearts that you see, Their strength is silent, their wounds unseen. For souls are spun from glass-like grace, And words can shatter what no hands trace.