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I Design the Chink
They ways I build lack perfection; that makes it worthy of this world, of your objectification.
I spin with thin silk thread that will guard something more; more valuable, more fragile, more precious than any else
I build your armor that will simply be and only be. Yet it protects you, it protects you body and it protects your life.
My simple planes will guard your life that you throw in to jeopardy by means of utilization
For a ship in the harbor is safe but that is not what ships are meant for and the same goes for you
So I will guard you from the storms tat will thrash over you and hold off every blade with my creation
But I do create and I decide
I could build of the thinnest glass, easily shattered, too lovely to strike. I could drape you with a veil and send you out for all the world, as if only a breath could break you
I could build of strongest stone surrounding you head to toe. Not harm nor sunlight would ever reach you. You could be adorned in blocks of granite that you may never feel the stings of the sharp things or the softness of a rose
Most importantly I create that second phrase, usually lost upon peoples filtering ears, a warning in a subtle way, spoken in a casual tone
It even has a simple word. It’s very small and inoffensive
I design the chink in your armor; it will always be there I promise
Perfection is not yours mere mortal, you very name professes your demise and babies born bearing their suits of armor cannot be safe for ever
One day a blade will find it, and it will be stunning I declare as the stars align and you’re your world is departed
Do you resent me? Curse my name, me who protected you all these years in you battle suit that you walk the face of the earth in
Do you resent your self, your stupid weakness the one sole spot upon you that disrupts your perfect peace?
Ponder that if you will, perfect peace, are you sure you’d really rather?
A perfect set of battle armor no chink to ever be found, no weakness to ever haunt, to be protected always from dangers of any sort?
Nothing to fear . . . and nothing to gain? Foolish mortal are you sure you desire this? What would your life be? What type of battle would you fight with out any chinks?
Your enemy would never fall with out his own chink. Selfish, did you even think of him? Did you imagine this gloriously bland immortality for only your self? That is terrible unfair of you
I declare this, for all you say you think to little, silly one.
I am an artist and I’ve created a game. I designed the pieces, that where you come in. I invented you arbor and your chink and both should be adored for what they are
Do not fret over it, do not hide you fatal flaw, your vulnerability if beautiful as your strength
The game is simply more exiting when there is a possibility of loss, as is a battle, and so is life
I design the chinks in your armor, do not curse my name