It consumes
laziness, compelling
one’s craziness, this anvil which lives.
Lacking significant meaning other than too,

fire passions.
Rust oxidized as must,
upon barren steel. The hammer’s blow
striking out imperfections as coke lies smelting.

Gated airflow critical to temperature.
Mystical combustion from within,
the fire’s soul essence of
self control.

Tink tonk tank tonk… arm spanks molten metal into
malleable form as persistent
crafty strokes ring anvil,
body, mind.

In excess,
coke bellowing black smoke.
Artisan choking on silent soot.
Pausing to catch breath as sips ladle from bucket.

Stoking fire,
fan flames, ash pan buckles
under intense heat of dragon’s breath.
All parts of alchemy behold a price, he gasps.

His body sweats, work without regret his passion.
Pounding out cycles with heat to cool.
Never once, does complain.
Wipes his brow.

He alone knows what gift grows beneath hardened hands.
That which is given purely of heart,
never broken for those
who need most.

Far from mind,
blind as rhythmic feeds wealth.
His desire holds no finance to gain,
for this trinket holds a higher purpose than such.

Many may see this blacksmith’s insanity, but
his work takes on a form beyond words.
In a place all his own,
envy unheard.

Final act,
trial of talent, styles so
elegant while simply intricate,
he applies the final glaze, a bronze patina.

Forge now cool,
cleaning his tools, waiting
for lacquer to soak and dry into
metals crafted by his own hands, this is the gift.

Sense of pride doesn’t break stride, he can see the flaws.
Yet he knows that imperfections are
the essence of the art…
it’s his best.

As he goes, his daughter betrothed in the chapel,
he wraps the gift carefully in a
leather pouch. Sign of love,
jeweled Cross.