He was born with the mind
of an artist,
but, through some trick of fate,
was given no means
to express it.
Some would say
along with a small
shameful part of my mind,
that he is like a child,
playing pretend in a world
long since gone and dead,
and therefore,
no use for today.
I can see his dream,
see that artist’s mind weave and dream
with golden arms,
brazen glory to the sun
in a shining sea
of bronze sheilds.
He dreams of weapons solid
to protect his own
from the equally physical
enemies
that wish to harm them.
At least,
he would prefer that
rather than the more spiritual,
and emotional blades
which God hands out to him
to battle a naked harlot
who calls out to all men
from pages
of the internet.
To battle, not against mortal harm,
but against shame,
and a killer of love
and souls.
There’s so much knotted in there
of frustration
from believing to be born
in the wrong time.
He can not use
the arms he trusts
in this war.
He can only use a mind he doubts,
which is already backed up
with doubt, sin,
and frustrated art.
Useless,
powerless,
ambiguous
art.
Author T.S. Lowe 