Weary Warrior

In answer to a personification challenge, a soldier ponders his retirement.

         I've entered into the dark yawning abyss one too many times. Over and over again, I faced an insidious foe. Standing tall, I never denied my master's requests. I embraced my purpose, my lot in life, my duty. I existed to serve without question, without regard to my own well-being. Always, I remained vigilant.

         Sigh, now I am but a weary warrior. My strength is ebbing. I can no longer summon resilience.

         Once, water refreshed me, but, alas, no more. It seeps into my core with chilling disregard. It erodes my resolve. I fear I have become mildewed and mouldy.

         My former supple frame is irreparably twisted and stooped. How can I answer a battle cry? I'm reduced to a brittle state. In a corner, I am propped. If knocked down, I flounder and await rescue.

         Time and again, I sacrificed my all. Bits and pieces paid the price for almost daily forays.

         I remember the lustrous head of my distant youth. I bristled with the best of them. I never foresaw gaping gaps much less crippling breakages.

         I confess to feeling nostalgic. Every mission proved to be unique. I butted heads with the enemy, and every scrape, every close brush, ended in victory. This really is no small feat. I refused to bow to the relentless onslaught.

         As I proclaimed, I am now a weary warrior. I fought the good fight. I never accepted defeat. I served my master to the best of my abilities. I shall not be remembered as a shirker.

         Even a humble, hardworking toothbrush such as myself understands that one day he will become replaceable. Obsolete is a harsh word. It's inevitable.

         Fighting plaque, gingivitis, and yellowing requires stalwart soldiers. I knew my glory days in the dental disease army were numbered.

         Never will I admit, I fought the plaque and the plaque won. ( 309 words )