Hard Surrender

An armor of worry suits this knight-at-arms,

protected from all assaults from outside.

Muted to the potent power of charm,

his stoic stance simply a place to hide.

Hands of mail, fine for striking but stifling touch.

Thick over the heart, hollow under hard steel,

to odd comfort of old pain he will clutch.

On constant alert, he thinks but won't feel.

Here and not here, he stands always alone.

We all fight, all struggle—of that, be assured.

Our forsaken vigils for endless unknowns.

Raise the visor, unshield the eyes, drop the sword.

Opened just so, he would breathe and speak light

to all, the hard surrender after the easy fight.