“Goodnight, world,” she says, as she closes her eyes.
But the Dark whispers back through the moonlit skies:
“The day has not passed; it has only begun.
“You’ve blocked out my truth, yet still, I have won.
“What is your worth? Tell me, what do they see?
“You shatter your mirrors, yet scream you are free.”
She shuts off her conscience and swallows her fear.
She speaks in defense, though her soul cannot hear.
“Go away, Little Voice! The world loves my disguise.
“They accept me in costume and believe in my lies . . .”
Her mind longs for slumber, but there is no peace
For the Dark has not rested and its smile has not ceased.
“Tell me, dear heart, are you fooling this crowd?
“Your mouth speaks in silence, but your shame cries aloud.”
She faces the mirror; her hands touch the glass.
She caresses her smile then peels off her mask.
The reflection has shifted; contentment has gone—
Now inside she wears anguish yet still aches to be strong.
A tear burns her cheek as she whispers in fear,
“I was free, Little Voice . . . How could my chains now appear?”
The Dark scoffs at her courage, then raises its voice,
“You are brave, my dear heart. Still, my knives are your toys.”
She trembles in weakness; she cannot plead her case,
So The Dark fills the silence and gives her no place.
“Look at your scars, then tell me I’m wrong!
“You say you have victory, but they are your song.”
Her heart shrieks in torture as she turns up her wrist—
Twelve cuts lined in sequence, each screaming for bliss.
“Here, Little Voice, now you have won.”
“Not yet,” the Dark whispers. “I still see the sun.”
It holds out a gift that will play with her mind:
A barrel in front and a trigger behind.
“Your freedom, my dear,” the Dark smiles in spite.
“Here is your ticket. Surrender this fight.”
She smoothes down her hair and picks up the gift.
“Thank you,” she whispers, for hope starts to drift.
The night opens a hand so she puts hers inside.
Her lips kiss the bullet, the Dark smiles with pride.
“Okay, Little Voice, your work here is done.
“Goodnight, world,” she says as she fingers the gun.
The night wraps in silence; it waits for her cry
But a voice breaks the stillness and gives a reply:
“This is My Child, loved and adored.
“She’s been kissed with deception by the rust of your sword.”
His voice burns with power, the words touch her soul,
She throws down the weapon; her fear starts to dull.
The Dark screams in denial, but cannot veil its fright,
For the presence of Hope beams a radiant light.
“Death, you have no victory. O’ Death, you have no sting.
“For I have overcome you. She is a child of The King.”
The Light turns to His daughter, but she cannot meet His eyes,
For shame holds her captive; still her mind drips with lies.
“You cannot accept me!” she screams to The Light
“My cuts shriek in vulgar. I am scarred by the fight.”
She chokes back her tears as she flashes her wrist
“Look at them, God! In their shame I exist.”
“No, My dear child, you look at my scars:
“The flesh that bore nails holds the moon and the stars.
“Look at my palms. Feel the wounds in my hand
“I consider your heart yet I number the sand.”
She touches the wounds. Her eyes fog in tears
For the scars in His hands have shattered her fears.
“In total surrender I lay at your feet.
“The Dark has no triumph; it falls in defeat.”
The air fills with song and it rings from above.
For her soul has found rest in the peace of His love.
The Light takes her hand, then tucks her to bed.
She closes her eyes. “Goodnight, world,” she says.
“Jesus again spoke to them, saying, “I am the Light of the world; he who follows me will not walk in the darkness, but will have the Light of life.” John 8:12