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.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: April 19th, 2025 03:58
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 22
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Poetic Licence
Offline)
Comments2
This poem speaks to me and seems somehow majestic. Line after line of beautiful crafted images that most would poets would dream to have but one of in a poem. A masterful work of art with metaphor that drips from. I can not tell you which line is my favorite for each has its own merit. The ending is the cherry on top. I believe that this is your finest work that I have read. I only wish that I had written it.
great read, thanks for sharing
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