Silent Fire, Sacred Strength
The classroom is a quiet forge,
and I, a blade in silent fire—
shaped by care, tempered in calm,
honed to serve a brighter purpose.
But into this heatswept chamber she storms,
a tempest cloaked in titles—
her words the hammer’s fall,
striking without measure, without proof.
She holds a flame to my calm steel,
asking why I do not sparkle like she:
“Why do you not forge connections?
Why do you not ring in chatter’s tone?”
Yet I am not a songbird chained to noise—
I am forged for the steady burn,
not the fleeting flash of gossip’s flame.
Her thunder cracks across the anvil of class—
insinuations, judgments, coated in authority.
A storm that sees only its own fury,
hearing nothing of the forge’s slow strength.
Still, in that crucible I hold my shape—
unbowed beneath unearned heat—
for steel that holds its edge through fire
is steel that stands through storm.
Each harsh word becomes smoke on hot iron,
which fades but leaves the core intact.
The hammer may bruise, the flame may scar,
but the metal remembers its maker.
And so I remain, weathered but true—
a blade of purpose, not of defiance.
Let her heat come and break upon me;
I will endure, refine, and rise anew.
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