"specatator" poems
Slithering skin forged into armor
by design, the highest quality of steel.
So diaphanous yet opaque,
a finely sculpted guise.
Today the scales are made of bronze,
tomorrow ebony or maybe gold.
The tireless smith works late into the
night, pursuing perfection undefined.
When the blessed night arrives
the armor's lain delicately aside,
always ready to be unsheathed
lest a new face or two should arrive.
Slumber is no longer silent,
dreams are fuelled by the next design
To fool the specatator into thinking
that the wearer is one of their kind.
Mirrors offer no reflection,
neither fair nor foul.
Only the gilded armor shines,
ever quenching the once human soul
That forged its' own demise.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 4:44 AM UTC