Sharpening sticks on stone
preparring for verbal
battles bombs
to be thrown
no cover when lovers
cross the line that was drawn
by a
tripwire slip of the tongue
never meant to be done
though often on the horizon of thought like the cusp of dawn..

War drum
the march
into no-mans-land
from which there's no return.
Forced to make a stand
tackle and defend
now the gauntlet's fallen.
To the jugular attack!
no retreat
no victors
only defeat.
Somethings you can't take back.
Sorry is the poor shield.
It's useless to yield
for the weapon
cuts deepest when wielded
by those we love fiercest.