The Battle

It started not with sword or flame,

But whispers low and ghosts of shame,

A quiet war, an unseen tide,

That raged beneath, where fears abide.

No trumpet call, no armor gleamed,

No shining knights as legends dreamed.

Just heavy hearts and hands grown sore,

From closing windows, locking doors.

It came at dusk, it came at dawn,

When hope was thin and light was gone.

It crept inside like winter’s chill,

And asked us, "Do you have the will?"

The battle was not fought with steel,

But every choice and how we feel.

The ache to rise when breath runs short,

The strength to stand, the will to court.

A thousand wounds not seen with eyes—

A smile worn thin, a soul in disguise.

The courage not to strike, but stay,

To find some light in shades of gray.

The battlefield was every mind,

Each thought that dared to be unkind.

The foe was doubt, the pain, the past,

The chains we swore we’d break at last.

And oh, the ones who did not fall—

They bore the weight, they heard the call.

With weary steps, they faced the storm,

Not to destroy, but to transform.

A mother fighting grief with grace,

A child who stares it in the face.

A friend who answers late-night cries,

A lover who still believes the skies.

The battle rages every day,

In quiet homes and words we say.

In broken things we try to mend,

In every start, and not the end.

So if you fight, and no one sees,

And you're brought low upon your knees—

Know this, dear soul: you're not alone,

This war is fought by hearts full-grown.

No medals shine for tears you’ve shed,

No songs for dreams you’ve kept or bled.

But in the silence, in the fire,

You are the warrior, the choir.

So raise your head though skies are black,

The battle never pushes back

Without a reason, without fear—

You fight because you're needed here.