A shield is carefully crafted,
Linking and weaving scars together to protect the bruised heart inside.
A shield is not a painted piece of polished protection.
A shield is the last resort, a desperate attempt to grip onto life,
Which is but a fragile skein of thread,
that quickly unravels and easily snaps in two.
The bruised heart is not hiding behind this armor.
A poor heart that has suffered at the abuse of the outside world,
Is simply trying to preserve itself from decaying.
If the battered heart is not secured behind its shield,
The deterioration of the muscle begins and the heart slowly fades away
In an revolting and repulsive death,
Unless the world is merciful and a spear is plunged through the heart
before it can succumb to a lethargic and dreadful death.
The heart avoids its fate,
Skirting around pain and skipping away from death.  
Through as the shield of scars becomes lame and worn,
The poor heart begins to wonder,
Would death really be so unfavorable,
If death meant it wouldn't have to live like this anymore?