Each morning he straps his boots,
the weight pressing him into clay,
muscle tapering into shadowed brawn,
his shoulders broad as borrowed fate.
The rustle of chainmail murmurs soft,
a hymn composed in rings of iron.
Not cruelty, but the heft of size
makes him the towering hymn\'s refrain.
It\'s lonely at this altitude, truthfully,
where every shouted word ricochets off
fear. Even the birds keep their distance,
stitching skies beyond his open reach.
His shadow spreads across the valley,
a dark stain on sunlight\'s painted field.
Somewhere, a boy strings his sling,
but Goliath hums to himself instead.