Wounded warrior

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There’s a figure in the distance
Barely more than a silhouette
Head bowed in acquiescence
as he leans against a rock
The art of war in his features, like
the notched blade he holds in his
hand,
Shows weary resolution, framed by
a disheveled grace
He brings his other hand up to
press against his side
Taking his time and breathing hard
as the path begins to rise
He hears the din of battle on the far
side of this hill
Drawing his strength and purpose
from a cause beyond his needs,
He presses on towards the goal
where most would fear to tread
As his figure crests the hill,
you feel that you’ve met him before
And looking in the mirror,
you know that you’ll soon meet again

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