My father bequeathed me armor
to wear in the crusades. I waved
my sword with zealous spirit, thrust
my wooden shield forward with faith.
The belt fastened on too tightly–
almost choked me out of all life.
The breastplate chafed against my neck–
I couldn’t pivot left or right.
The shoes never fit my flat feet–
I couldn’t walk by end of night.
The helmet blinded my vision–
I never saw the coming tide.
I fell at noon, screaming for help–
they already pronounced me dead–
wading through waves of demon attacks,
bleeding out spirit, faith, and friends.
Through cracks in the armor I slipped
and rose to face another day–
tried pawning pieces for pennies,
but only the helmet remained.
The shield shattered into splinters,
the breastplate rusted in the rain,
the shoes severed from heel to sole,
the sword was never seen again.
From the helmet I fashioned a face
to wear at theaters and ballets
and when struck by moods to role-play
and when it might help me get laid.