Armor

It is elegant, this armor,
beautiful with leaves and flowers,
symbols of life etched into the breastplate.
Gold and grey and black,
with ribbons the color of blood intertwined.

A piece of art, so beautiful in the museum
that we forget it’s purpose,
to protect the wearer
from those determined to kill.

No armor is perfect however.
There are chinks
where a sharp edge can still find blood,
and the armor itself is heavy,

wearing, a burden worn of necessity,
so heavy that when you fall,
standing again is nigh on to impossible
without the help of those who love you.

About this poem

Most of us wear armor. Not because we want to, but because we fear things. Often it is beautiful, barely perceptible, but it is there.

The picture was taken at the Worcester Art Museum.

Tom