She lived in a prison trapped by her own demons Far away on a land in the vacant city of Past (This must be a new renaissance) With its thousand over capacity of memories populating the country They hiss and snarl and growl and tear at her clothes Trying to get her to utter something An apology or a plea, a command or a query Say a prayer! Say a prayer! little girl in the prairie Yet she will not break her silence A stone wall set high above the cement floors of the four walls that were caging her in She would not give up the strength she found In the sliver of light that sneakily crept under the tight fit of her window sill Every afternoon at 3pm when the sun was at its highest So were her fears and doubts at their lowest She had the name of Paula given by her ancestors Who collected flowers of which pollens were distributed by bees To their own specific ministries that thrived off of generosity and pure need to give Yet at night the monsters came back to prey on her decaying bones that Gave a home to the fatigued Sensitive to every piece of sound she could collect in her ears Looking around constantly wondering who’s there hiding behind every whisper of the wind Psychotic laughter ate at her resolve, feeding from the tears they didn’t know will someday **** them; she killed them with every desperate cry to her King They knew not of a Prince of peace with glory and power and grandeur and majesty Her hands grew weake but His remaidn strong throughout the years They pushed back the walls that were falling Based on the wrong foundations they couldn’t hold on to the weight on their shoulders Pressing at every corner, every shoulder blade was a blade on its own, turning on itself Like a jealous lover, they all fell away pointing their fingers indignantly With an air of impudence with which they could not see or hear or think or imagine Surely, they must have known of a God who could do wonders like use a stone as a destructive weapon against a Philistine? All that was left of the cell where she was so untimely detained was smoke and ashes Scent of old and Past – a receding memory from a warrior’s victory It no longer held captive the prisoner it once held So closely So dearly In its arms Safe and sound she goes back to her Father's arms Trapped in the embrace where freedom lived And salvation, and grace, and mercy
"We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed."