I will worry through my armour.
Do I wait for these holes, or remove it piece by piece, while it still provides?
These plates and chains are heavy, cumbersome at times, but I've grown accustomed
to their cocoon.
Guards wrapped around my legs steady my stance when I sway in doubt.
Without them, will my knees bend too easily?
Shields on my arms dull my instincts to strike.
I'm able to tolerate elbows that jostle for my place on the ladder.
Without them, will I keep my grip without vengeance?
My helmet maintains my heat, echoes my thoughts and keeps me purposed.
In its absence, will the voices of others warm me or distract me with their hymns?
My greatest risk, unsealing the chest piece, exposing my heart; a heart that pumps 
blissfully in caged ignorance.
What will prevent the piercing of needles, let alone swords, bleeding away my care?
I dream of skin and bones hard enough to thrive in battle,
yet soft enough to be seduced in tenderness.
Is it better to await the inevitable, worry through my armour?


B. Toner November 2023