The Forge
The Forge
They call me the Poet, the Fan, and the Flame,
A legend here tempered by labor and strain.
I’m back to the heat of the foundry floor—
Straight up from the pits where the dark devils roar.
I don’t want their pity, I don’t want defeat,
I don’t need their comfort or promise of peace.
I want the loud blast and the casting poured bright,
To challenge the shadows and step in the light.
Through fire and stone, by the oath I have sworn,
I’ll walk from the ash like a phoenix reborn.
The chippers will rattle, the grinder sparks fly,
Cutting the dark like a jagged reply.
I’m grinding the rough till the edges are true,
Forging the soul from the ghost that I knew.
For once was a spirit made timid with strain,
Broken and battered by injury and pain—
To body and health and the strength of my name.
Now ash gives way to the phoenix delight,
To rise up renewed in the day's golden light.
The spirit and soul that was battered and banned,
Returns to my honor by work of my hand—
Uncompromising, I am ready to stand.
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