How often I’ve thought it would come to this:
a battle,
a stand-off with swords,
a line in the sand between powers;
me against you
my ally turned into my foe
because you were never an ally I trusted;
uncertainty
mutated into self-doubt
projected into everyone-else-doubt
and now we are at a crossroads
of our own fabrication,
our own fear.
Our only option:
death by excommunication
because neither will fold or forgive;
the night is too far gone for reconciliation.
Love will be buried deep under
arguments over truth.
In the loneliness I cannot reach out to you
without facing my shame,
which I cannot.
In the regret I cannot spark a light of hope
without lowering my sword,
and I will not.
Here in the garden of oil, there is no one willing to heal.