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Suit of Armor

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There he slept

sunken and broken

bent and withered,

dripping with dust.

His blistered spine,

the metallic prize,

his neurotic burdens,

the corrosive rust.


The moon swayed

from a tethered noose,

tied to a notch,

he had carved in the sky.

Its legs and fingers

twitched with remorse,

its face vivid and bright,

refusing to die.


As he awoke to the creaking

of the moon’s botched throne,

madness gripped him

and turned him to stone.

He screamed to the Gods,

and the moon’s deadly vine,

he proclaimed to the heavens…


“I’m doing just fine”.

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I liked the way this flowed

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