Ronda shadows: how do I make the pieces fit?

I cannot say it yet, the heart wont form, and hurt wont yield, so it sits above it's self; caged and molten in the free forming waves that crash around ancient parapets. The ledge, where we dare not speak, or walk beyond the skin. Those small tactile points, the hurts of wars, that we suffer in the silence of retreats; Jaded smiles, walled up within them selves. A bluff hold of memory, high apon a lime stone head, looking out to the ancient plain, where warrior armies gather in the depth below. Arms drawn, knives ready. Blood.Bloodied. Bled. MB