Clad in bronze armor
Not chitin, insects are bad omens
I write your name in the air, sir
With sword

It cuts nothing but air
That sword, señor
Spells death by turbine
An airplane

Clings to air for dear life
An armor you depend on
Air and metal
And apologies

Are those needed?
Those shackles? That air?
That shell? Such hell
Is worth being cut

In half a day
You lose a few cups of water
Your body, cut in half
Loses a bit less

Than a whole man
Clad in bronze armor
Looking for a way out
And sloppily dyed hair, yessir