Heart-to-heart, they were warriors;
hand-to-hand combatants suffering
the slings and arrows of outrageous accusation.
Shaken to its core, the love once shared
is no more. She held firm, her tongue in silence
and all the fierce violence he had perpetrated
only exacerbated their animus. It was a blessing
that her rugged resolve would hold her; solid marble
with a tender touch. In the remote reaches
of her time-worn soul, she saw herself a vision
in splendor and grace. The memory of his face was filed
away like the other cows who attempted to graze
in her verdant pasture. The bastards
should have known, Love is a battlefield.
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012
Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #73