Few will ever fight the system. Period.
Have you seen a mercenary?
Rugged backpack on the shoulder, a gun on the belt
Sports shoes on, travelling the valley
Of the lexicon, walking slowly
Learning not just the art of mere survival,
But the tricks of the trade.
Look how that soldier of fortune
With no support from any man or beast
Shifts his imagination through paradigms
In quantum leaps, throwing out
Traps to catch doves, hares and squirrels
To cook them on a camp fire
And when he is weary from the long walk,
Feeling lifeless and crumpled, all he asks
Is a little helping of manna,
To format the heart and begin another day
Of not knowing what is in store.
How beautiful is living for the day,
By a water bottle, aluminum cup and plastic plate.
Oh the simple needs of a poet.
To serenade words, metaphors and similes
To where solitude mixes them up
In to the outreach of a poem.
