Invertebrate

In the movies,

The coward typically has lank arms,

He’s got this pallor to him, 

Like maybe he’s afraid of the light,

An irrational fear of what light through yonder window breaks.

Blue veins popped through bright white skin,

so pellucid one might mistake him 

for transparent— an air through which you could walk
without consequence.

Isn’t it funny?

You can’t tell much from the heart of a man by looking at him.

But a coward?

Come close. 

No.

Closer, until you can see the whites in his eyes.

There is a lank limb there in the iris 

Of which even the sclera is ashamed to speak;

It cannot withstand the weight of verity nor reason,

(A flabby incompetent muscle, at best).

At the first pinkblue kiss of burning sunrise,

He shields himself from its surmise,

Too afraid of what might materialize

from the previous night’s shadows— 

A replica of Himself? A six-headed monster? Or worse yet, nothing?

And so it is; the coward is tripped up and trampled on,

An air through which truth could walk

without consequence.

ABOUT: this isn’t a racial poem, contrary to what the ignorant might want to believe. It’s about cowardice, an ugly trait, but invisible nonetheless.

Post Script: I’m not really a big fan of Shakespeare or the war veteran, William Prescott, but their quotes were fitting.