A devotional poem about humanity’s struggle for pleasure in place of peace

Vice isn’t a civilized war; it’s guerrilla warfare. Vices don’t demonstrate their power; they pull their strings over us from the dark reaches and secret places.

If we could face our opponent, we could concentrate our might with whatever willpower we may muster. But our strength is instead stretched thin; we’re struck at low points, unannounced. With too many battlefronts and too little notice, we fall and succumb to the wrath of vicious habits.

We’re beaten and slain. We never knew when to draw our swords. The enemy strikes at obscene hours and snuck into unclean nooks, thieving and harvesting while our guard is retired.

The drink of vice leaves the tongue dry. Desires please our pleasures yet displease our souls; our soul cries for calm.

Wine of bitter vines slows our anxious pulse into a slumber, but we awake before dawn.

Cheap comforts can’t steal comfort.

Comfort is earned and achieved by character—the response that requires intention and effort—and willpower to combat the dark folds of our minds that crease us into its envelope, to seal us under our qualms for peace and devotion.

Only One grants us rest.

Only One conquers the rest.