They’d take from me if I were soft or kind,
The world rewards the ones who strike first blood.
So I arrive with fire in my mind,
And leave them crawling through the filth and mud.
I’ve learned to steal what no one freely gives,
To smile while taking what they’d never lend.
This is the law by which the monster lives—
The kind will lose; the ruthless always end.

But don’t mistake this armor for my skin,
I once was soft, a girl with glass in hand.
When no one came, I learned to hold it in—
To guard my tears, to draw a battle plan.
They left me cold in childhood’s shattered room,
With dreams that froze beneath a mother’s scream.
I built this shell to rise above the gloom,
And killed the girl who dared to hope or dream.

I wonder if there’s more than how I live—
A touch not meant to bruise, a kiss not lied.
Is there a world where I still learn to give,
Where beauty isn’t something used to hide?
At night, I dream I’m someone I don’t know—
She laughs with ease and loves without a mask.
But morning comes, and I must let her go—
For mercy is a blade I cannot grasp.

The post Beautiful Monster appeared first on EDC Writers.

The soil, once yielding, chokes upon his name,
Rejecting hands that once had tilled its clay.
The fields grow thorns, the sun withdraws its flame,
And shadows stretch to mark his darkened way.
For hands unclean may never grasp the sheaf,
Nor quench their thirst from fountains clear and bright.
Where blood is spilled, the ground recoils in grief,
And heavy silence swallows heaven’s light.
The wound remains, though time may shift the sand—
The stain of sin still lingers on his hand.

No home shall hold him, nor the hearth burn warm,
No walls shall rise to guard him from the night.
The howling wind shall take his name by storm,
And set his days adrift, devoid of light.
He walks alone, yet never shall he flee
The mark that binds his soul in bitter chain.
A name once spoken soft in infancy
Now echoes harsh with sorrow, guilt, and pain.
For mercy spares, yet bids him walk apart,
A restless wanderer with a broken heart.

The words still linger, cold upon the tongue,
A question wreathed in pride yet draped in sin.
Would heaven carve such bonds if they were none?
Would not the stars entwine the souls within?
O reckless hands that sever love with hate,
O bitter lips that dare deny their kin!
We are the keepers, bound by mortal fate,
Each life a thread the next must weave within.
No blood may fall unnoticed, nor unseen—
For love was made to mend where death has been.

The post The Keeper’s Lament appeared first on EDC Writers.

This land has borne the wars that shaped our souls,
Scarred since the birth of water, light, and sky.
Each muscle trained to fight or flee the storm,
Like those before, we choose the course we walk.
The marks of those long gone still guide our steps,
Their battles carved within what we become.

Within our hands, we grasp the word of God,
Its polished curves reflect the morning light.
A dome, though battered, guards what would have broke,
Forged in the fire as Christ endured the fast—
Forty days and nights of trial and grace.
Refined in flames, He hung upon the cross,
Not for His sins, but ours—a sacrifice.

The swing of swords resounds with ancient truth,
We cling to faith no larger than a seed.
It gleams before us, sharp as dawn’s first light,
Parrying loss with promises divine.
We tell our loved ones, “We shall meet again,”
As battlefields bear fragments of our youth.

For God so loved the world, He gave His Son.
We live and die with these words in our hearts.
Without His love, the darkness would consume,
But Christ has taught us how to forge our swords.
Through holy words and prophets, shields are shaped—
God’s children, armored in eternal grace.

The post Sword & Shield of God’s Children appeared first on EDC Writers.