Skilled at conflict Her armor laid down Surrounded by ancestors she kneels to the ground Stripped naked and bare she casts down despair Intimately remembering what survival erased: the safety the softness the sweetness of an embrace No more calls to battle, no wars to defend she is their answered prayer “Thank God—she is The End” In the hush after battle, a new truth is heard: generational curses broken– in deed and word She learned to survive while keeping hope alive Fighting to see tomorrow she outlived her sorrow Her armor was placed before she could even run this race She waits in a quiet she cannot outrun her softest era has just begun Trumpets sound—not as warning, not as test— but as a promise from God: she is finally safe to rest Releasing the weight held deep within, she lets the warmth of Sunshine touch her skin Still a gangsta down to her core— proof that growing through life is truly The Art of War
