Last Man Standing

 In the arena of existence,


Where battles rage unseen,


The last man stands— A sentinel against the tides of time.

 


His armor, not forged of steel,


But woven from memories and scars,


Each wound a testament to survival,


Each scar a whispered story etched in skin.


 

He gazes upon the fallen,


Their echoes fading into the void,


Their struggles now mere echoes,


Lost in the vast expanse of yesterdays.



The last man stands— Not as a victor,


but as witness,


To the ebb and flow of life,


To the dance of creation and decay.

 


His eyes, weary yet unyielding,


Seek meaning in the chaos,


For he knows that purpose lies not In conquest or laurels, but in endurance.



The sun dips low, casting shadows,


And he remains—the solitary figure,


A silhouette against the fading light,


A testament to the indomitable spirit.

 


In the quietude of twilight,


He contemplates the cosmic game,


Where finite and infinite intertwine,


And whispers, "I am the last, yet never alone."



For the last man standing,


Is not defined by victory or defeat,


But by the unwavering flame within,


That burns even when all else fades away.



A poem to celebrate the spirit of the last man standing!

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