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.