If you’ve ever met a demon, you’ve known leashes, locks, and ties,
you’ve known every filthy fingerprint that’s lined you with its lies.
If you’ve ever met a demon, you’ve let pretty pretense go,
because surely it’s no monster if it’s here to help you grow.
It whispers that it’s best for you. Obey, and let me live.
You see the knives behind its back, but you forgive, forgive, forgive.
A monster grasps your hand and pours you tea beside his grave,
but his words are only pretty till you find yourself a slave.
A monster claims to love you with its lie-drunk, maddened tongue;
its fluent fabrications are like smoke that haunts your lungs.
It will trace its hand along the truth that weaves your basket heart,
but it will twist the reeds until you think the ending is the start.
It will tell you that you’re safe enough to wander as you please,
but the grace you left behind won’t be as free on bended knees.
A monster wields your weakness like a rhythmic, scheming blade,
then wags a finger in your face for every slip you’ve ever made.
Why should heaven want the broken, the defeated, and the flawed?
Why should those with sins and scars be called before the face of God?
A monster tunes and beats your eardrums till its voice is all you hear,
and the truth within your basket seems too small to see it clear.
Its lies are present; they are haunting, and they never leave your mind—
but what would fill the space if you could leave its voice behind?
I’d say a monster leaves you numb, but leaving’s not its game,
and if you had a weapon waiting, it’d dodge your every aim.
But one thing it is scared of; one corner of the light
blinds its eyes, ties its hands, and makes it flee in fright.
You know that on your own, your weakened legs could never run,
but you can also know this light, and it is sword and shield in one.
So listen close, my calloused weaver, with your basket heart in hand,
a monster cannot twist your truth if you refuse to let him stand.
Listen close, my weary archer, before the arrow tastes the air,
that the best defense your soul can have is weapons forged in prayer.
Cindy Green is a forest-wandering, poetry-scribbling stargazer with messy notebooks and messy thoughts. Despite her love for all of God’s creation, sunflowers and stars in particular have a way of sneaking into both her writing and her heart (but you won’t hear her complaining about it). She is an amateur sword-wielder with a Highland-dancing warrior spirit who also writes letters to the moon and considers the sky her best friend. A focused daydreamer, organized pack rat, and oblivious observer, she is a self-professing ambivert (or a living contradiction) who deeply feels both the beauty and fallen state of the world. Through her words, she hopes to describe the indescribable and form personal connections with people while reflecting a love for her Savior and a passion for everything she touches.