Pyrrhic Victories

We have wounded each other

And each claims victory

Yet Pyrrha will be the final judge.

We have retreated to the safety 

Of our respective trenches

To tend our wounds

And wait.

I cannot speak to your wounds,

I only know my own.

There are wounds inflicted by our skirmishes

And brief but bitter struggles 

That descended into a dark well of silence.

They were bloody and they were deep,

Slow to heal and sure to leave a scar

And for that I must look first to myself

For I own a portion of my pain

And I cannot escape.

I am plagued by conscience

And rash decisions.

I confess that the wounds I dealt 

Were thoughtless and deep.

With a lash in my hand and a blade on my tongue

I had broken one of my core beliefs:

“To do no harm”.

I was ashamed.

I make no apologies for my failings,

No excuses for my sins.

They were mine

And I alone owned them,

No forgiveness,

No absolution.

Mine.

And the wounds I delivered?

Perhaps I had driven you

To the place you now find yourself.

If I could heal for the two of us

And mend this battlefield-landscape,

If I could walk on water,

Or turn water into wine,

I might fix all that is broken.

If I could.

It has been said that

Time heals all wounds.

No.

To the contrary,

Time infects all wounds.

Time is a ravenous beast

That cannot be stopped

But has little restorative powers.

Time is indifferent to

All the needs and wants of you and I.

Time is the ultimate arbiter of all things

It devours.

It does not heal.

We have wounded each other

And each claims victory.

Yet Pyrrha will be the final judge

Ensuring final defeat

In the face of certain victory.

So we retreat to our trenches

We tend to our wounds

And our wounded

And we wait.

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