The Guise

Slithering skin forged into armor

by design, the highest quality of steel.

So diaphanous yet opaque,

a finely sculpted guise.

Today the scales are made of bronze,

tomorrow ebony or maybe gold.

The tireless smith works late into the

night, pursuing perfection undefined.

When the blessed night arrives

the armor's lain delicately aside,

always ready to be unsheathed

lest a new face or two should arrive.

Slumber is no longer silent,

dreams are fuelled by the next design

To fool the specatator into thinking

that the wearer is one of their kind.

Mirrors offer no reflection,

neither fair nor foul.

Only the gilded armor shines,

ever quenching the once human soul

That forged its' own demise.