The Warrior

I am a warrior who carries
Neither gun nor blade nor club.

My shield is within me,
Fashioned from silences, slapstick and wordplay,
From averted looks, feigned acquiescence, the interstices
Where a small boy could hide.

My camouflage is narcissus' pond
Into which others would stare
Believing that in me
They could see themselves.

But that was my outer skin
And this was my shield
And I am a warrior,
Bellying his way through the grass,
Guarding his treasure,
His truest love from harm.

I fashioned this shield
To break the blows of fists,
Sarcasm and indifference.
I moved in camouflage
To shield my inner flame
From the cold wet
Of a conscious death.

I bided my time, in wait,
In the woods.

I am a warrior of powerful dreams,
Who lives in awe of love, sex, friendship
And human connection.

I know and believe in the power of the heart.

I am a warrior who has faced his trials,
Concealed his passion from vampires and ghosts
In loving words, poetry,
And the melody of many tongues.

I am a warrior who, at mid-life, learned
The war was over,
The artillery of childhood had long fallen silent,
Could not hurt him or destroy him.

Who looked beneath him and found instead of weapons,
Tools and materials miraculously saved, sharpened,
And kept safe.

Who, emerging from the woods long after trekking
Into safer, less toxic territory,
Found himself without a war to wage;
The camouflage, the shield,
The gallant pretense of servitude and service,
Had outlived their purpose.

Who washing off pollution and dead skin
Under a shower of love,
In the waterfall of his brighter world,
Blinks his eyes and seeing people in aquariums eating fish,
Shatters monotony with his laughter,
Drops his shield and makes it scatter.

Who glories in anticipation
Of his own shameless nakedness.