I so do realize how you despise to compromise.
The need you feel to make it real that you be right.
It supersedes all rational thought, and spins and spins
In cyclonic bursts and torques of an uncontrolled self.
Gale force winds shape and force a win. Regardless.
Too late to see the battered tree once proud. Toppled.
Roots exposed in crater too shallow. Unprotected.
Leaves clinging, but dangling and turning brown. Wilted.