He bears no blade, no shield of steel,
No armor forged to break or feel,
Yet in his stance there lies a flame—
A quiet strength, a soul untamed.
He walks where silence stifles truth,
Where power scorns the dreams of youth,
And with a whisper, fierce and bold,
He shapes the air, and stories told.
His weapon: not of iron made,
But syllables in light arrayed;
He draws from thought, from heart, from fire,
And speaks what tyrants most require.
His voice—a hammer in disguise,
That shatters fear and breaks through lies.
His pen—a sword of deeper cut,
That opens minds once tightly shut.
He fights not just to win or boast,
But for the ones who’ve suffered most—
The voiceless crowd, the silenced plea,
The truths beneath hypocrisy.
And though no statue marks his name,
No medal speaks his quiet fame,
He lives where every mind is stirred—
The warrior who fights with words.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
Discover more from Writing Through the Soul
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
