Children of the story

We all have the same gift
but a finger we would not lift
until it becomes an issue of pride
then the venom we cannot contain inside.
Backbiting, jealousy and egos did grow  
until beautiful words no longer could flow
tongues become quiet and still
as fingers type words meant to kill,
ugly desires did become the norm
as demons took form,
now what was once a loving troupe
have become strange chickens in the coop.
I hope the heart can be turned sweet again
and allow the honeyed words to win.