Armor

It is said that there is nothing truly new for the creature of choice.
Once compelled in a life of mid-decision,
In the host armor of feel,
Cancel-eyed,
Stare fixed on idea.

Then, things of fear and rare fruit.
Should-be's swarming in a skull
Above a blindness of the appetite,
Dragging fast behind them
Rampant hands of wont and right.