How dull is the knife wielded in passion's ire 
which lands the hurtful blow 
where the bad time amplifies 
tragedy's plateau 
and wounds grow. 

Things small 
sometimes sting the most 
tiny cuts often swell over the years 
if we allow them so 
their very smallness can irk us so; 
we see they were avoidable 
yet but
that blade slices thin slivers 
which in time became infected. 

A cannon wound more understandable 
because unpreventable 
but lover's cold eye 
lands blows unshielded 
and that blade's edge 
slices easier 
over quivering heart tissue. 

But wiser now I see small lesions 
old and new 
I now must surrender 
by Will 
and vanquish them 
begrudgingly 
for they have Pride's Gauze 
and a too long memory for bandages. 

Let me give them up 
heroically as I do 
for they are wounds of mine and wasted time
and mask that who
we are 
as one.