The Armor Wearer

The armor gleams in the museum.
Polished, the light just so,
bringing out the highlights.
A piece of art. Steel and filigree.

I am fascinated with armor,
with the idea of protection
and for me the interesting parts
are not the beautiful, museum-worthy elements,

but the dents. The scratches
that could not be buffed out by the museum keepers,
evidence that this was not for show,
but took it’s share of swords and arrows

And survived.
Not without injury. Oh no.
There would be bruises. At times
broken bones. But the armor wearer

was never impaled. Never bled out.
Survived, it battered. And for a moment
your spirit at the warrior who once wore this,
merge. Your own wounds,

those of the spirit, rejoice in the battles won,
reveling in every bruise and broken part,
knowing that for every flaw and broken part,
you still survived.

About this poem

A poem about armor. Physical and spiritual.

The picture was taken at the Worcester Museum.

Tom