In quiet chambers of her relentless thought,
Where shadows of self-doubt oft linger and meld,
There dwells a soul, seemingly taut and bold,
Yet besieged by battles, internally fought.

This weary traveler of life’s twisted path,
Whose heart is deeply furrowed by plight and pain,
Proclaims aloud a fighter’s name, though in vain,
While inwardly succumbing to wearied wrath.

“In Christ, my strength,” she declares with pious breath,
Yet treads a trodden way, away from His light,
Endorsing a journey into dimming night,
Seeking refuge, not in faith, but quiet death.

She speaks of might, of battles yet to be won,
Whilst silently surrendering to the none.
With prayers lingering on unspeaking lips,
She finds herself adrift, in faith’s eclipse.

But within those hollowed eyes, a spark remains,
A flickering light in caverns of the estranged.
The Christ she calls upon, does He not see?
Within her struggles, might His love yet be free?

Though paths diverge and tangle in shadows drear,
A whisper of grace may yet draw her near,
To rediscover, in depths of despairing sea,
A buoyant hope, in sacred Divinity.

A paradox, this soul, who champions a fight,
Yet drowns quietly in the silence of night.
In the paradox, the enigma, she stands,
A warrior weak, upheld by Invisible Hand.

In this vessel of contradiction, perhaps we find,
The complexity of the human heart and mind.
To wage the war within, to choose to aspire,
In the very surrender, might faith rekindle fire?

And so, her spirit, though battered, will not break,
For even in silence, the ever-present ache,
It whispers of something lost, yet to be found,
In the labyrinth of the soul, where truths are unbound.

Thus, shall we judge, or shall we extend a hand?
To uplift, to illuminate, to understand.
For, in each of us, a battle remains unseen,
A journey untold, in life’s unfolding scene.