The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)

Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..

  not as surrender,
  but as choice.

Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.

Within the responsibility of what
  leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her

without deception.

Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.

It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,

the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound

  and wonder.

Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:

the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,

the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.

This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.

Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.

The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..

through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.

And inside--
the war begins.

..   ..   ..   ..

Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding

what stays,
what burns away.

Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,

what is earned,

what is Light.

The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;

  they choose.

And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.

Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.

Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.

The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows  will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.

The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,

Light has begun
to rise.

At times, it feels my life’s been spent
Crawling through a tunnel, tight and bent
No room to stretch, no breath to spare
Just inch by inch through stifling air

It grips my ribs, it binds my chest,
But still, I crawl, I do my best.
It hurts, it aches, it steals my breath
But forward still, I crawl from death

There is no door, no secret track
No turning ’round, no going back
The only way is straight and true
The only way is pushing through

But I could swear this tunnel has no end
No torch, flare, curve, or bend
Just black on black, and cold like bone
I’ve called this narrow dark my own

Yet what becomes of one like me,
Who’s known the dark so constantly?
What happens when I reach the day,
And light attempts to guide my way?
What will it do to skin grown pale,
To bones that knew the dark so well?

Will sunlight scorch this shadowed flesh,
That’s only known the tunnel’s mesh?
Will open skies just make me blind,
Too much for one so far behind?

This flesh was wrapped in shadow’s arms,
It learned to see in night’s alarms
This skin knows only hush and shade,
Will warmth be more than I can take?

I dream of comfort, of golden air,
But tremble at its blistered glare.
The things I crave, the things I seek,
Are often sharp, and never meek.

To live, to heal, to see things through,
I fear the joy as much as the blue.
For pain and dark are twined in me,
And freedom stings like memory.

The dreams I hold are stitched with fright
Each hope I touch could spark or bite
For even joy can twist and sear
When light itself becomes a fear

Oh, my sweet
summer child,
with your golden smile
and that glimmer in your eyes.

I admire you,
maybe even envy
your blinding sun,
that hurts my tired eyes.

Your sun-kissed
picture frame face
exudes such joviality
but at a pace

With undulating curls
that unfurl around
your shimmering face,
yet still hold place.

How does it feel
to be God’s favorite?
I wonder,
how you smile with such grace.

Sun-blanketed sheets,
a crumpled map of us,
our bodies
a single braid
beneath.

Yesterday’s coffee
- cold -
but still enough.

Dust waltzing
in the slanted light,
each one
a tiny planet
taking flight.

Your breath,
a slow rhythm
on my skin,
quieting all within.

No need for words,
no need to see—
just this
slow
breathing
symphony.

All we really need is on the other side.
Everything here is a clutter,
brought to us by a random tide.

We see this world
with strangers' eyes.

Everything here is in darkness,
but fear you not,
for every darkness turns into light.

We have no beginning,
and even if we had,
we would look for it
in vain.

And that knowledge saves us
from the impossible
pain.