In whispered nooks where scuttlebutts speak, A web of tales so dense and weak. Their words like leaves on autumn gust, Swept and scattered, forming mistrust. With tongue once nimble, now entwined, In silence, truth they cannot find. For every tale they've wrongly spun, Echoes linger, words undone. Yet words do matter, weight they hold, Threads that weave both new and old. Consider then, before they fly, The power they hold, to edify. In silence listen; pause, reflect, Choose words with care, to heal, connect. For wisdom lies not in the spread, But in the knowledge humbly fed.