To Burn One’s Armour – a poem



What lives is winding, wending elsewhere,

The black cruelty of starless tsunamis

Swishing, slushing, pouring in tides
Tyrannical for no substance, weight,
Wild only in imagining, forever wispy.
To wake when the stars burn out, pseudo-
Alive as the nebulae preceding proto-stars
Simply exist, in perpetua, dying to give birth,
Those old suits of heat blackened armour burning
To give some approximation of warmth, to soothe.
A cenotaph worthy of lives slipped through
Cracks in systems smoulders in the dark, tied
To entropic forces undying when even aeons
Have aspired to their true ends, perforce timing
Victims to take with them, with eyes forever blank.
Vulnerable, the body shakes without its shell,
So many discarded yet not enough, death knells
Struck in air thicker than butane, explosive
Tendencies leading to vile thoughts on those old
Suits of armour, suitable to fit bold pyrotechnics.


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