Crucible

As scorching as the spring’s mid-day sun Muddled with pain from the burn Fiercely caressing to the bone Obviously heating to hurt In silence he mourns For it hurts with sore But diligence he brings to fore Slowly begetting patience at dawn And his reward ultimately borne Yet out of fear Hands dare not come near As he feast there Hoping to overcome his flare But he is now as cold as snow For he hold pretense in the low Seeking for patience as it sows And finally he bows For the heart that beholds him