Still in the Fight

Romans 8:38-39
"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Satan and his angels came one night
to sit on your pillow.
And they watched you sleep,
seeing your mouth open,
your tongue sinking back into your throat.

They heard the wheeze from exhausted lungs,
the pitiful plea to God for release, for deliverance.

The streetlight flickered—a silent witness—
the room heavy with their presence,
their dark laughter barely audible,
like the hum of the refrigerator
in the kitchen down the hall.

You were lost in dreams,
or maybe it was nightmares,
trapped in a web of your own making—
a life tangled in regrets and broken promises,
an old lover's kiss turned sour,
the bottle empty beside the bed.

The clock on the wall ticked on,
indifferent to your suffering,
the seconds slipping away
like sand through a sieve,
like the love you once had
but couldn’t keep.

Outside, a dog barked,
a car backfired, a siren wailed—
the city alive and indifferent,
a million souls in their own private hells,
none of them knowing or caring
that Satan and his angels had come for you.

Your fingers twitched,
grasping at the sheets,
your face contorted in pain,
the sweat on your brow glistening
in the dim light.

They leaned in closer,
their breath cold against your skin,
whispering promises of release,
of eternal rest,
if only you would let go.

But you clung on—
to the memory of better days,
to the hope that somewhere, somehow,
there was still a chance,
still a way out.

The night stretched on,
an endless parade of shadows,
and they stayed with you—
watching, waiting,
for you to make your peace,
for you to give in.

But you fought,
with every ragged breath,
every beat of your weary heart,
refusing to surrender,
refusing to let them win.

And when the first light of dawn
crept through the window,
they slunk away,
back to whatever dark corner
they had come from—
leaving you alone,
still breathing, still fighting,
still alive.

The world outside was waking up,
another day beginning.
And you knew you would rise,
face it all again,
because that’s what you did,
what you always did.

And maybe, just maybe,
you’d find a way to make it through—
to outlast the darkness,
to find some semblance of peace
in this broken world.

You turned your head to the side,
saw the old Bible on the nightstand,
its pages worn and stained.
And you reached out,
your hand trembling,
and opened it to a random page,
reading the words with tired eyes.

And in that moment,
you felt a glimmer of something—
maybe hope, maybe faith,
maybe just a stubborn refusal
to let the bastards win.

So, you closed the book,
laid back down,
and waited for sleep to come,
knowing that the battle wasn’t over,
but that you were still in the fight—
still breathing, still alive.

© R Gordon Zyne