Mirror

I hate this man
He shies away in the face
Of his great adversary
A construct of which his comrades
Welcome unto themselves
And share with others in laughter,

He travels vast and beautiful lands
And rests his gaze upon naught
But the dead and dull
Blades once green, starved of hydration
And abused by the sun,

His stride is a feeble attempt
At confidence,
The rigid flow of each reluctant
Physical exertion is a mortifying dance
For which he merely bares witness
From without himself

He is a warrior,
But he does not strike down
His enemies,
For his dagger is aimed at himself,
Creating fields of cracked and dry scabs
Upon his very own flesh,

And the man thinks,
Through the haze of his self inflicted
Wounds,
If all of man shall be loath of him,
He shall hate himself too.

Nice. You have skill in presenting an image upon the readers mind