The Armour of My Youth, by Toli Kram

It is with no surprise that you realise, while young and growing, that you were almost impervious to general emotional harm.

It bore you well through much trepidation and trial by your peers; those who looked on or jeered mockingly.

Yet this cauldron of beliefs gave resistance, and its protection became ever more obvious and needed as time passed.

It conjoined with other souls that wore it too, protected as chain mail covers an arm or chausses for a leg.

They too shared in its invulnerability and prospered well; though some suffered from its abuse.

Hardening and showing patina after time, making cautious words from others almost insignificant and meaningless.

But they too have their armour, and the clashes were repeated loud and bloodied through their imagined halcyon days.

Wearing it was like a statement, though it brought weaknesses which we could never see.

My breastplate which I’d hardened and polished over time became no more use to me than a smear of butter.

A boy can grow in many directions, and in all this time unknowingly I had been carrying an Achilles heel.

Ladies fair, though they were different to us, we knew one day that we would have to meet one or two.

As Cupid’s arrows in love's battle were drawn and fired, you could feel the holes appearing in your armour. No arrow could be stopped.

Arrows passed through as if paper were employed to prevent fire and rain, let alone love’s first tender kiss.

Just as an arrow would cause blood, so it did with our emotions, seeping red from the heart through chain mail and doublet.

What pain did we endure and what fools we became, each one of us to the confession box of our friends visited willingly or not.

What use is this armour without its protection from the sting of rejected love?

Some of these holes and blows are too big to restore soon: it may take a lifetime.

Now the armour has less shine, but scratched and scoured it has become, so over the years giving the wearer skill at avoiding sullied arrows.

It makes the wearer not disparaging or rueful, but yet wary that injury is ever close to hand.

And we are forever wishing for our hearts to become a shining target for those arrows with true flight to reach its mark.

Some pierce with strong intent, giving hope and fortitude in fertilizing the imagined years ahead.

Short lived are these arrows as they fall by the wayside, covering the battle field like stalks of corn.

Where breastplate was struck emotions now wear the hole, and loves experience grows ever greater.

As time slowly tortures my weary soul I pray for its swift end, and to be at peace from a fatal blow.

To ascend from this plane with sword at rest in my hand; to unsheathe it only in defence of being parted from love, or besmirched by insult or deed.

The armour of my youth how well thou hast served me, even if I did not use you at all well.

I’ve unbuckled this chastely garment, and cast it aside along the path I now tread, never to look back with anger or remorse.

I accept and take the wound of love, hoping that infection sets and grows devouring me completely.

No need now of this armour laying at my feet, as I walk hand in hand I see armour strewn around and abandoned, and my soul is forever heartened.