The Poet

He seems

made of steel.

His exoskeleton –

bravado solidified,

mortar machismo –

reflects the light

flawlessly, fluidly,

when viewed

from a distance.

But close the gap,

inch closer,

and spidery cracks

from years

of deflecting

imaginary arrows

betray themselves.

And with each word

cascading

down

the page,

he allows

another piece of armor

to fall away,

revealing

unblemished (raw) skin.

He is made of flesh

after all.

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