The Little Guard

He stands on the rug where the battles are fought,

A plastic fort built from a child’s thought.

With helmet askew and a rifle held tight,

He guards the keep through the day and the night.

The walls are bright white, the gate doesn’t close,

But he keeps his watch as if facing real foes.

The carpet’s a field, the lamp is the sun,

And every small skirmish is bravely won.

When bedtime arrives and the armies all sleep,

He still holds the line in his silence deep.

A sentinel proud in his molded attire,

Defending a kingdom of dust and desire.

For though he’s just plastic, chipped at the seams,

He carries the weight of a thousand dreams—

A hero at post, in battles long past,

A toy soldier’s courage forever will last.