The very thing(s) you claim to possess might very well be possessing you instead.
This is possibly the saddest poem I have ever read.
“There is an ancient myth in this feature, that of the ‘true language’, the tongue in which there is a thing for each word and a word for each thing, and in which signifier then naturally has power over signified.”
“How do I feel? Well, I don’t know how to say it. I feel, I feel, I feel like spring after winter, and sun on the leaves; and like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!”
The old hoard the Night shall keep, / while earth waits and the Elves sleep.