There will always be a
low-hanging branch
above my high held head,
against my aching legs,
there will never be a crutch,
but a thick dust blanket instead.
Beyond my half-shut eyes,
I will never see the camouflage covered fiend
waiting for my demise.
Yet, further, I will trek,
over verdant creepers and
tangled rose beds,
if only for the tiny
glimmer in my eye,
that there is in fact an end.
Sincerely,
A Lost Man