A soldier standing tall

a sole survivor

of the fortnightly massacre

Reflecting

why was he chosen to remain

on the smooth battlefield.

Empty handed

unable to fight

he stands tall

on guard

shaking with fear

waiting

always waiting

for the next attack.

Like  clockwork

it comes

six thirty three

the lonely soldier

stands

hoping to be spared.

Water begins to stream

over his length

he sees the glimmer of the weapon drawing near

removing the beginninings

of his reincarnated friends

choked with foam

the soldier holds his breath.

With one perfect swipe

he is gone

the enemy polishes the front line

perfectly manicured

soft

silky

smooth

no whiskers remain.