There was a soldier. He was keen and lean. Finger tips to touch trees. Lanky, but firm. Carried his heart in his sleeve. Pressed and protected. Always set to undress at a moment’s request.
On an undertaking of survival. Further than, he desired to be filled. To be filled with the sky he strolled under. The soiled ground he lingered upon. The air he filtered in. The pierce of the sun, never shunned.
To be occupied with it all. He yearned to be bursting. To survive he needed to thrive. He required relinquishment. An abandonment of harsh time. Explosive cultivation. With an inspiration to provide.
He carried it with him. In a dark pocket concealed. He foraged. He fumed. A fiery burn, with each step he resumed. A stumble upon a knotted branch. Sweat beading on his brow. Every breath to devour.
He braced for the cold nights. With a jacket and cap sewn of experience. Carried the weight of what is upon his shoulders. He sought through. Among the scarce troops. Eyes closed. With stars to guide true.
The soldier rummaged the terrain. Dust clouding his nostrils. Sand in his hair. Grit embedded in jagged nails. Seeped deep into his skin. It swallowed. The gravel into his core. What is became what is his.
To carry in the night. Under a sullen star, peeking. Befitted everything the keen soldier was seeking. Out of step. He laid out onto his back into the dark ground. Lifted his sleeve and sang his song proud.