Poetry

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This Battlefield of mine.


The enemy crouches oh so low,
slithering, creeping to and fro.
Through crags and crevices somber, so slender,
to prey on the weak, the young and tender.

If only like a man he would draw his sword,
face me in the light, he and his hoard.
But no, in the shadows he chooses to lurk,
fearful of light, the swamp more his turf.

It is written the eyes are the windows to my soul,
If darkness they welcome, I shall reap what I’ve sown.
The battle intensifies as His coming draws nearer,
Demon lust, for my demise, becomes so much clearer.

This battleground secluded, seen by so few,
on the front lines, every morning his darts fly anew.
What I face in this life from those I can see
In no measure compares, with this struggle in me.

My brother Paul, instructed me dearly,
In Romans chapter twelve, he told me so clearly.
Transformation comes by the renewing of my mind,
yes the worst of my battles take place here every time.

My mind is the battlefield, where the war rages on,
I must fight the good fight until my days here are done.
Conformed to this world, is not an option, no never!
When my mind is in Christ, the enemy’s grasp is then severed.








John Wark 2010.

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