My anger was a fortress, thick and tall, Built stone by stone to keep the hurt behind a wall. I swore I'd never soften to your call, or turn to face the ghost of yesterday. I carried every grudge like sharpened flint, a heavy weight that kept me hardened to pain; I looked for mercy, found no silver glint, and learned to live with my bitterness.
But now the news has landed at my door— The fortress walls are crumbling to dust. I find I do not want this war anymore, nor all this armor, orange-thick with rust. For as the shadow gathers at your feet, the sharpest words have lost their jagged edge; the victory of hate feels incomplete when standing on this final, narrow ledge.
