Beneath the ornaments

I'd worn a crown of thorns
and once, a cloth of silk.
I concealed the ripped and torn
and hid what tears I'd spilled.
For nothing was so weak, they said,
than to look with our true face.
To show our flesh, reveal our eyes
and act in our true ways.
They were men of valour
(or so I had presumed)
fearless and illustrious
in their hearty aptitudes.
But once I caught a glimpse.
I assure you, it was enough.
I unveiled my eye to catch a breeze
when the heat had been too much.
I saw their commander leaning
as though he had to pose.
Glowing brightly in the summer sun.
Immaculate from heel to nose.
But behind him there, barely to be seen,
a mendicant in rags; with eyes as though they'd never slept
but maybe once had dreams.
This man of ruin, this beggar here,
he pulled sharply on the fine commanders robes
and all at once, it was revealed, the man was only clothes.
The commandant, he flung around and fed the beggar man his hilt.

Beneath the ornaments

He roared and scorned the "lesser man"
"I could have you killed!"
"Forgive me, sir" spoke the man in rags.
"I only desire food.
It was not my intention to offend
and lesser so, to be rude."
The commandant flung the man away
and resumed his Godly stance.
It was then I learned that a shroud or veil
meant nought.
Buried deep, still, the true character would advance.
So do not place such worth in golden things. Concern yourself with acts. Lay down your silken robes and let your veil retract.
Beneath the ornaments lay the true and priceless seams. The gold of good, the weight of love and the sanctity of dreams.