The Blacksmith's Anvil
Out of the chimney stack, the dark, thick smoke rises from the blacksmith, its pollutants diffusing like poison into the air above,
Contaminating the clouds with bloodlust, and staying their wish to spill their tainted blood onto the earth.
Upon the blacksmith's anvil, a weapon is forged.
A blade to liberate, a blade to heal,
A blade to shine as a symbol of undying love.
Down the hammer falls, beating out the impurities
Creating a weapon of cold steel and boundless power
A weapon to assure the safety of the user in the darkest of winter nights.
Into the flame blow the rapiers, fanning the fire with the winds of discontent
It rises, higher, to be used on the sword…
Faster, it burns, consuming everything that it touches
The heavy oil of painful memories, the heavy fat of twisted decadence
All burnt and refined in the fire of hate, and coming out as waste; now unnecessary,
Sharing their fate with many of the frills of life.
Furrowing his brow, he wipes the sweat from his forehead and works on to create the blade that will deliver him from the hands of his enemies, and the deceits of his friends. This blade will never fail him.
The flame of rebirth will burn out all the impurities of life's cold and leave him with a fresh, new slate, and like a phoenix out of the ashes, the sword will shine, grow .
Truly it is a labour of love, the work of the blacksmith
'Tis a lonely job, that of the blacksmith, and 'tis an arcane art.
Nevertheless, it is a necessary one.
Unused love and sad, twisted lies fanning the pure white flames of hate.
'tis necessary for the sword to be made…
All are thrown into the fire; the only way to create a blaze hot enough to melt the hardening heart.
Many hours on, one can see the result; the impurities slowly dripping away as slag.
Like the process of healing, it is long, and arduous, but surely the result will be worth the wait.
A sword, perfectly crafted, tempered to meet the harshest of life's demands,
and made devoid of all the needless emotions that would deviate it from it's task.
Misshapen sensitivities, tainted love, all cast and forged in the fire,
Hammered upon the blacksmith's anvil
Smoothing out the undulations of the human psyche and creating the flat lines necessary to cut.
For this is the reason for the sword's existence, the reason for the hammer's blows
The bounty from previous conquests is taken from the victims of previous encounters as well,
Burnt in the flames as a symbol of trophy.
In that single instant, the blacksmith is reborn,
A smelter casting the golden idol to rise to the stars.
On and on, the hammer falls, singing the tune of adversity to the infant steel, until at last, it stops.
The sword is complete: an instrument of death.
An instrument of life.