I thought this was finished. I thought it was done.
That the past was the past, and could not be un-spun
I thought we agreed, at the table of truce
That to treasure old wounds had no possible use.
We struggled for truth, and we fought for respect,
And I thought, when we finished, the ground rules were set:
No more with pretending, no more with the lies
No more of presuming to know other’s minds.
To move on from that point, with the level field plain,
To learn how to be friends, and not nurture old pain;
It galls me, it does, to learn this is true
That the thrust of our truce matters nothing to you.
To respect with the truth, unvarnished and bold
Was in part, the agreement we vouchsafed to hold
To foreswear pleasant lies, and let troubles be known
And to honour that truce, I let past words be shown.
Now comes condemnation, betrayal and rage
And a drama-dilemma regarding a page
Torn out of a book that our truce should have sealed,
But that now’s fashioned into a weapon you wield.
Those words from the past, I won’t speak to today,
Lest real understanding distract from the fray.
I only point out; you lied to us both
When you promised me you could handle the truth.
But if ancient issues are now to be raised,
Old wounds and old insults refreshed, reappraised,
If time’s circumstance cannot factor your view
If the truce lies in ribbons, the culprit is you.
Truce by clue
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