I must have tripped into a battle ground unsuspecting.
All I know is the child's play of toy soldiers, but this?
This is war.
And I'm not ready.
The arrows fly . . . whizzing a foot away from my ear drums,
Making them rattle, making my heart beat.
Faster. Faster. Faster.
And the whiz of the arrows makes words and sentences.
Another one flies by,
And as it cuts through wind, it cuts out words, speaking:
danae, danae, you're not a warrior.
you're a coward, a reject.
your life doesn't look like theirs.
it's a shards pile of rebellious brokenness.
who do you think you are?
you don't even know what it's like to follow Jesus.
you've forgotten Him, remember?
you're not even worth wounding in this battle.
you'll never find a home.
you definitely don't belong here.
you'll fail and disappoint everyone.
just get out of the way.
your life's a joke.
oh, i see.
now you're playing victim.
stoop that low, huh?
it's all your fault anyways, remember?
another arrow, another arrow, another arrow.
closer. nearer. contiguous.
To be continued.