Untitled prompt

It is hard to move wearing this dark, heavy cloak,
wet and sagging, dragging on the ground
amassing debris, leaving a muddy trail behind.

I trip, ripping the seam on a sharp snag;
I tug at the fabric still caught
in the jagged branches, shredding it,
threads running the entire length
of this musty velvet cloak.

I wipe the blood of my hands
and dirt from my brow
and shed this outer layer
and stand.
Here I am:
naked, uncloaked, unburdened.