Aftermath

It took years for my shell to grow.

A million skin cells bled, and dried,

then decayed to dust - like men at war -

and fossilized over millennia into

scales of tempered steel.

I must have defied countless sieges - 
that coat of mail and dermis had
endured wound and rust - but you,
you chipped, pried and plucked away
one loose scale at a time.

I've no more skin cells left to bleed.
The marauding's done. Move on to your
next plunder while I vainly scoop
my armor -- water in your wake --
together into ice.