Weary, he plods on, baggage on his back.
The veins of his hand have twisted like a vine
Around the bulky weight, saying, "It is mine."
Still, he stands apart, more than one of a kine.

Compassion massages his taut sinews, yet,
Weary, he plods on, baggage on his back.
Lesser men would have long ago lost his bet,
Yet, perversely, he holds on, drowning in sweat.

His eyes' red thunderbolts weep, "What is this for?
To what profit is this never-ending war?"
Weary, he plods on, baggage on his back,
Ev'rything in him crying, "No more! No more!"

What demons is he fighting back in his head?
Is he fighting alone? Is he almost dead?
Would release bring wings to those heels cast of lead?
Weary, he plods on, baggage on his back.