There are no easy victories in this war of words waged on
pages that are no longer pages made of paper, although the devastation remains
clear, the wide range of abused branches set to flame in the exchange, the
painful turmoil only exaggerated rhetoric can bring, wounds forged so deeply
and with such rage that no stitch in time can made them heal or at least heal
correctly, leaving twinges on gray days we must endure until the skies turn
blue again. No one win when both sides stumble away with wounds this deep, inflicted
with the most terrible weapons, no knife or bullet, but with sharp edges of
what we call love, and it is far too late to surrender, the damage already
done, a treaty managing merely to halt the hostilities, not mend what has
already been done, war of words more debilitating than an atomic blast,
radiating into every park of the anatomy, especially that places we previously
derived pleasure from, the worst woulds rising from where the hear once found surety
in.
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