Few are the women that have tested my mettle,
Have measured the fabric of my soul,
Or lined the seams of my ego,
Only one, wore my cloak.
The cloak is one of armour,
Full metal jacket,
Heavy not with material,
But my character weight,
Laden with my demeanour,
A burden of my attitude.
It’s weight can only be tolerated by thighs of resilience,
A fortified back,
Shoulders of breadth.
As a result, it will shield her,
Harm won’t be near her and even if it were,
It would crumble in attempt.
It will swarm her with a desire to rise to it’s responsibility,
Build her own mettle, her own metal,
Until she doesn’t need me clothing her,
But is my equal, removes the cloak and walks besides me,
Rising to the occasion to hand her own cloak, with me, to our children.