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
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